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Enchanted  Vagabonds 

>§]  The  best-selling  1 930s  account 
of  a  16,000-mile  nautical 
adventure 

Dana  Lamb 


mm 


|  An  Adventure  Travel  Classic 


Enchanted  Vagabonds 


by 

Dana  Lamb 


The  Long  Riders’  Guild  Press 
www.thelongridersguild.com 
ISBN  No:  1-59048-080-5 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2017 


https://archive.org/details/enchantedvagabonOOIamb 


To  the  Reader: 


The  editors  and  publishers  of  The  Long  Riders’  Guild 
Press  faced  significant  technical  and  financial  difficulties 
in  bringing  this  and  the  other  titles  in  the  Equestrian 
Travel  Classics  collection  to  the  light  of  day. 

Though  the  authors  represented  in  this  international 
series  envisioned  their  stories  being  shared  for 
generations  to  come,  all  too  often  that  was  not  the  case. 
Sadly,  many  of  the  books  now  being  published  by  The 
Long  Riders’  Guild  Press  were  discovered  gracing  the 
bookshelves  of  rare  book  dealers,  adorned  with  princely 
prices  that  placed  them  out  of  financial  reach  of  the 
common  reader.  The  remainder  were  found  lying 
neglected  on  the  scrap  heap  of  history,  their  once-proud 
stories  forgotten,  their  once-glorious  covers  stained  by 
the  toil  of  time  and  a  host  of  indifferent  previous  owners. 

However  The  Long  Riders’  Guild  Press  passionately 
believes  that  this  book,  and  its  literary  sisters,  remain  of 
global  interest  and  importance.  We  stand  committed, 
therefore,  to  bringing  our  readers  the  best  copy  of  these 
classics  at  the  most  affordable  price.  The  copy  which 
you  now  hold  may  have  small  blemishes  originating  from 
the  master  text. 

We  apologize  in  advance  for  any  defects  of  this  nature. 


j  |  :  .ar'oo  oi 


To 

the  many  people , 
officials  and  citizens  of  Mexico 
and  Central  America ,  who  gave 
us  a  helping  hand  along  the 
way ,  and  without  whose  kindly 
assistance  the  trip  could  never 
have  been  completed ;  to  Cap¬ 
tain  Fischer ,  Captain  Dobbs 
and  the  crews  of  the  S.S.  Mayan 
and  Fisherman  II;  to  our 
friends  in  the  United  States 
Army  and  Navy  who  not  only 
co-operated  with  us  at  the  be¬ 
ginning  ,  but  who  made  our 
journey* s  end  a  delight  to  be 
long  remembered.  Adios,  ami¬ 
gos,  que  le  vaya  bien. 


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from  Photographs  Special!)  A  lade 
b)  the  Author  During  His 
Sixteen  -  thousand-  mile  J on  me ) 
Recounted  in 

ENCHANTED 

VAGABONDS 

b) 

DANA  LAMB 

in  collaboration  u  ith 

JUNE  CLEVELAND 


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1.  and  2.  Two  views  of  cHc-  Vagabunda  in  the  process  of  construction.  A  sixteen-foot 
it  was  a  combination  of  sailboat,  kyak,  surfboat.  and  canoe. 


Spp:! 


3. 


The  slopes  of  the  volcano  were  honeycombed  with  fissures,  the  breeding-grounds  for  great  colo¬ 
nies  of  cormorants. 


4.  We  made  camp  on  the  beach,  between  the  grave  of  a  Chinese  and  a  small  hut  made  of  whisky-cases. 


We  promptly  grounded  on  a  mudflat  —  but  we  did  get  some  fine  dams. 


*6.  At  Boca  de  Concjo.  These  giant  cacti  are  said  to  grow  at  the  rate  of  six  inches  in  ten  years. 


9. 


An  iguana,  and  to  the  left,  my  new  machete  with  a  three-and-a-half-foot 
carved  into  a  serpent. 


blade  and 


a  bone  handle 


10.  We  make  temporary  camp  and  wait  for  the  tide  to  turn 


>  . 


11.  Dinner  at  Wilderness  Camp. 


12.  Ginger  and  Elena  at  Puerto  Escondido.  Elena  was  a  blonde  from  an  inland  tribe. 


13.  With  no  further  nonsense  we  shot  two  large  alligators  and  three  little  ones. 


14.  Catching  iguanas  near  Sacrihcios  Harbor. 


:  HissjisiiQ  ffiitfrflj'tTo  jiif  rtift'uijjjrnr  *  jsi  i." /Wjrr < tin-i ^ .  •  %s  %  i.vt*  s*  :  r>  \  svvx  jwv 

§mH 

g£|||i||| 

SfWptJHjgwiy  UHl  flrUk’ vP<l  pC'V-Qi  * wiiMK i  !nW  yvt  wff  ■,.*  x<k-?y •» 

if  I 

v||||jfc  1 

15.  Ginger  arrayed  in  full  Tehuana  coStume,  wearing  a  necklace  made  of  U.  S.  gold  coins  about 

$400  worth. 


16.  Cortez’  lighthouse  at  La  Ventosa. 


17.  Dona  Lupe  centre  and  friends,  in  embroidered  clothes  of  notable  beauty. 


18.  Starting  up  the  Coatzacoalcos  River. 


:  ••  ** 

-M&- 

19. 


Fording  a 
discarded 


stream  juft  before  we  reached  the  army’s  camp,  where  we  found  the  enamelled  pot  and 
equipment. 


20.  We  decide  to  return  Pussyfoot  to  the  village.  Note  the  slashes  on'  her  neck. 


21.  Ocelot,  mountain  lion,  and  jaguar  skins. 


22.  Don  Juan  and  Dona  Facunda,  Ginger  and  Dan. 


iSSpSSsp 


21).  Ginger  in  her  Tarzan  outfit— taken  at  Base  Camp. 


CONTENTS 


I  Prelude  to  Adventure  1 

ii  Adventure  Comes  to  Meet  Us  6 

iii  Think  Fast  or  Die  17 

iv  Where  the  Tides  Meet  52 

v  Los  Coyotes  37 

vi  The  Captain  of  the  Guard  Plays  Poker  49 

vn  Make  Way  for  a  School  of  Whales  53 

vm  Wreck  at  Boca  de  Conejo  57 

ix  “The  Damn  Fools!”  63 

x  Four  to  One  Against  Us  71 

xi  Mexico's  Untamed  Indians  86 

xii  The  Jungle  That's  Not  in  the  Guide  Books  94 

xiii  Jungle  Idyll  107 

xiv  Jungle  Rhythm  123 

xv  They  Do  It  Differently  in  Hollywood  133 

xvi  Jungle  Gangsters  142 

xvii  Jungle  Fever  150 

xviii  Minor  Misadventures  1 66 

xix  Country  of  Cortez  178 

xx  Forbidden  Land  215 

xxi  Land  of  Primitive  Men  248 

xxii  The  Second  Portage  287 


Contents 


vi 

xxin  Swamp  Grass,  Quicksand,  and  a  Few  Marenos  996 

xxiv  Holiday  in  the  Cerrado  395 

xxv  Guatemala  to  Costa  Rica  359 

xxvi  Cocos  Island — The  Last  Adventure  370 

xxvii  The  End  of  the  Trail — Panama  410 


MAPS 


1.  From  San  Diego  to  Cedros  Island  11 

2.  Cape  of  Lower  California  33 

3.  Lower  California  75 

4.  From  Mazatlan  to  Chamela  Bay  99 

5.  From  Chamela  to  Escondido  155 

6.  Mexico  145 

7.  From  Puerto  Escondido  to  Salina  Cruz  171 

8.  Isthmus  of  Tehuantepec  220 

9.  From  Salina  Cruz  to  Sacapulco  Bar,  Mexico  261 

10.  From  Sacapulco  Bar  to  Champerico  535 

11.  From  Champerico  to  Panama  359 

12.  North  Portion  of  Cocos  Island  375 

13.  Cocos  Island  389 


' 


■ 


,  :  I  I 


ENCHANTED 


VAGABONDS 


Chapter  One 


PRELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 


ou  can't  take  that  young  girl  to  Panama  in  any  canoe.  Why  .  .  .  the 


X  whole  idea  is  ridiculous.  We  are  here  to  stop  you — if  we  have  to  get 
out  an  injunction!" 

Wholly  unprepared  for  this  assault,  I  turned  towards  the  speaker  in 
amazement.  She  was  a  large,  emphatic  lady,  with  an  imperative  voice  and 
manner,  who  had  just  come  aboard  the  old  square-rigger,  Star  of  India , 
our  headquarters  in  San  Diego  harbour  during  our  last  two  weeks'  prepara¬ 
tion  for  our  voyage  down  the  west  coasts  of  Mexico  and  Central  America. 
The  lady  headed  a  committee  of  five — apparently  self-appointed — guardi¬ 
ans  of  my  wife  Ginger's  welfare.  All  five  women  were  complete  strangers 
to  both  of  us!  Their  attitude  indicated  that  no  man  did  right  by  any  woman 
— unless  he  had  to — and  they  were  there  to  see  that  justice  was  done. 

Red-faced  and  embarrassed,  for  the  boat  was  full  of  people  who  had  come 
to  see  us  off,  I  feebly  muttered  some  response  about  "Two  years'  intensive 
preparation  for  this  voyage." 

For  this  was  the  day!  Our  "Great  Adventure"  was  about  to  begin. 

During  the  hubbub,  Ginger  said  nothing.  How  often  since  have  I  yearned 
to  possess  myself  of  that  committee's  power  over  Ginger! 

We  had  dreamt  about  this  day.  Ginger  and  I  had  talked  about  adven¬ 
turing  ever  since  we  were  kids  together.  And  I  had  wanted,  as  long  as  I 
could  remember,  to  go  to  all  those  places  marked  "unexplored"  that  dotted 
the  maps  that  I  had  hung  upon  the  walls  of  my  den,  together  with  old 
flintlock  pistols  and  rusty  knives.  I  knew,  from  my  reading  and  experience, 
about  the  perils  of  the  sea  and  jungle — but  nothing  in  my  background  had 
prepared  me  for  committees.  Had  those  doughty  adventurers  of  the  past, 
whose  exploits  had  fired  my  imagination,  had  to  run  the  gauntlet  of  com¬ 
mittees?  If  so,  they  should  have  stated  so  plainly,  and  not — cravenly — kept 
still.  Had  Leander,  and  the  redoubtable  Halliburton,  braved  committees  to 
swim  the  Hellespont?  History  remains  silent. 

Four  of  the  five  ladies  were  no  doubt  entitled  to  be  addressed  as  "Ma¬ 
dame  Chairman,"  but  the  fifth  was  a  demure  soul  who  would  never  have 
aspired  to  that  honour.  She  had  apparently  come  "just  for  the  ride."  As  the 
committee  indignantly  bustled  away  to  get  its  injunction,  she  slowly  fol¬ 
lowed.  The  last  to  go  over  the  side,  she  turned  round  and  grinned  at  me — 
I  could  have  sworn  that  one  eyelid  faintly  drooped! 


2  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

We  had  intended  to  take  our  leave  of  San  Diego  that  morning  at  seven 
— this  was  October  9,  1 933.  All  the  last-ininute  errands  were  done,  our 
equipment  packed  and  loaded  in  our  boat,  the  Vagabunda.  At  last  we 
were  ready  to  leave  the  life  we  knew,  to  trust  our  lives  and  fortunes  to  our 
wits  and  to  whatever  vicissitudes  the  Fates  had  in  store.  In  some  ways  it 
seemed  an  easy  choice.  The  depression-ridden  world  was  sunk  in  a  morass 
of  its  own  making.  Like  thousands  of  young  men  and  women,  we  had  come 
to  maturity  in  such  a  world — and  we  were  tired  of  it. 

This  jaunt  off  to  the  wilds  was  not  the  result  of  a  sudden  impulse,  nor 
was  it  conceived  as  a  stunt.  To  both  of  us  a  life  of  routine  was  distasteful, 
and  we  had  always  planned  to  avoid  it.  We  like  doing  things  for  the  fun 
of  it  rather  than  for  necessity.  We  wanted  to  go  alone,  and  to  do  this  we 
had  to  have  a  little  boat  that  two  people  could  manage.  A  boat  that  could 
be  beached  along  the  harbourless  coasts  of  Lower  California,  and  sailed  up 
the  rivers  of  Central  America.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  although  we  called  our 
boat  a  canoe,  it  wasn't  a  canoe  at  all.  The  Vagabunda  was  a  mongrel  boat, 
a  sort  of  cross  between  an  Eskimo  kayak,  a  surfboat,  and  a  sailboat  with  a 
canoe. 

Our  initial  preparations  over  a  period  of  two  years  had  been  conducted 
rather  quietly.  Friends  knew  of  our  plans;  and  there  had  been  no  little  talk 
as  to  the  wisdom  of  our  attempting  to  cut  ourselves  off  from  the  life  to 
which  we  were  trained.  Everybody  believed  that  a  lot  of  our  fine  romantic 
visions  of  “freedom  and  the  good  life"  were  but  the  yeasty  ferments  of 
adolescence.  And  perhaps  they  were.  At  any  rate  they  made  fine  fireside 
conversation  in  our  parlour  in  Santa  Ana. 

The  public,  however,  had  shown  no  special  concern  with  our  affairs. 

Now  enters  the  villain  of  the  piece.  On  this  last  day  the  papers  suddenly 
decided  that  we  were  news!  They  made  a  Roman  holiday  of  what  they 
were  pleased  to  call  “Puddle-jumping  to  Panama  .  .  .  Couple  Take  Honey¬ 
moon  Cruise  to  Panama  in  a  Canoe  ..."  The  fact  that  we  were  not  a 
“honeymoon  couple,"  but  a  staid  old  married  pair  of  nearly  a  year's  stand¬ 
ing,  didn't  mean  a  thing  to  the  press.  Ginger  protested  violently  at  first, 
and  then  weakly  gave  up  in  disgust.  The  result  of  all  this  ballyhoo  was  most 
unfortunate.  That  last  day  the  Star  of  India  and  ourselves  were  the  re¬ 
luctant  hosts  to  hordes  of  newspaper  people  and  curiosity  seekers,  as  well 
as  to  our  friends  and  relatives.  The  air  was  full  of  confusion,  of  contradic¬ 
tory  statements,  and  all  the  other  clamour  that  the  press  can  so  successfully 
arouse.  But  among  our  unknown  and  uninvited  guests  were  two  people 
whom  we  still  remember  with  affection. 

A  little  old  man  came  aboard  who  asked  to  see  us  privately.  He  had 
brought  us  a  present  of  an  automatic  pistol;  and  his  disappointment  and 
grief  over  our  admission  that  we  already  had  one  touched  us  both.  He  was 
old  and  frail;  and  judging  from  his  general  appearance,  the  gun  was  a 
princely  gift.  When  he  said,  “You  two  are  doing  what  I've  always  wanted 


Prelude  to  Adventure 


3 


and  never  had  the  chance  to  do/'  we  knew  that  that  gun  was  more  than  a 
firearm  to  him.  He  was  also  a  symbol  to  us,  for  he  represented  all  those 
romantic  spirits  hiding  beneath  the  shiny  alpaca  coats  of  their  routined 
days  the  souls  of  Captain  Kidd  and  Richard  Coeur  de  Lion.  What  circum¬ 
stances  had  chained  him  we  never  knew.  Perhaps  adventure  to  him  had 
been  a  shining  dream,  not  meant  to  be  literally  translated.  And  now  he 
was  too  old.  Nevertheless,  he  did  so  desperately  want  to  be  in  some  way  a 
part  of  what,  for  him,  was  a  dream  come  true.  So  he  said  he'd  keep  the  gun 
and  look  at  it  often  and  think  of  us  off' in  the  jungle.  Then  we  three  cried  a 
bit — and  he  went  away. 

The  other  visitor  was  a  man  who  offered  us  his  dog.  When  we  explained 
the  impossibility  of  maintaining  a  dog  in  our  tiny  boat,  he  insisted,  “But, 
man,  you  can't  go  adventuring  without  a  dog.  You’ve  got  to  have  one!'' 

A  funny  business,  this  of  people — the  women  who  wanted  to  stop  us;  the 
men  who  wanted  to  aid  us.  Perhaps,  in  both  cases,  a  transference  of  their 
own  hopes  and  fears.  The  women's  fears  of  the  unknown  rationalized  into 
fear  for  my  wife’s  safety.  They  represented  Woman,  the  eternal  conser¬ 
vator,  who  has  most  to  lose  through  Man’s  restless  spirit,  and  who  tries 
unceasingly  to  mould  it  to  her  needs  and  uses.  We’ve  often  wondered  since 
if  either  of  those  two  men  could  have  been  the  committee's  husband?  It 
would  explain  much. 

Almost  all  our  visitors  that  afternoon  brought  some  little  gift.  Since  our 
cargo  space  was  limited  to  one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  of  dunnage,  which 
had  been  carefully  selected  after  countless  eliminations,  our  frail  craft  was 
loaded  to  the  gunwales  with  this  additional  cargo.  So  that  when  we  put  to 
sea  late  that  afternoon,  with  the  committee's  injunction  still  unserved,  the 
Vagabunda  wallowed  sluggishly  in  the  quiet  waters  of  San  Diego  harbour. 

All  that  day,  and  for  many  days  past,  we  had  been  keyed  up  to  a  high 
pitch  of  excitement.  We  had  been  far  too  busy  to  really  analyse  our  feelings 
towards  the  trip,  now  fast  becoming  a  reality  in  place  of  a  rosy  dream.  Our 
weeks  in  San  Diego  had  been  spent  in  visits  to  the  Naval  Hospital  for  in¬ 
oculations  against  tropical  diseases,  and  to  pick  up  what  medical  lore 
might  be  of  use.  We  had  gotten  clearance  papers,  seamen's  certificates; 
had  done  all  the  things  that  a  ship’s  master,  no  matter  what  the  size  of 
his  craft,  must  do  in  order  to  gain  entry  into  foreign  ports.  Incidentally, 
the  opposition  to  our  plans  had  tended  to  obscure  rather  than  to  induce 
reflection.  We  just  got  mad,  and  stayed  that  way. 

In  our  conversations  with  each  other,  we  had  talked  of  sailing  the  whole 
distance  to  Panama.  But  if  we  found  the  trip  too  difficult,  or  our  craft  un¬ 
seaworthy,  we  meant  to  explore  the  coast  of  Lower  California  and  the 
waters  of  the  Gulf  of  California — and  call  it  a  day.  This  we  carefully  ex¬ 
plained  to  the  press. 

So  here  we  were.  The  excitement  that  had  buoyed  us  up  these  many 
months,  that  had  made  us  brush  aside  the  fears  of  friends  and  ignore  the 


4  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

warnings  of  sea  captains  and  many  another  hard-bitten  familiar  of  that 
barren  coast — that  first  fine  flush  had  lessened.  Now  for  the  first  time  we 
freely  admitted  a  question.  Could  we  do  it?  Human  opposition  had  vanished 
with  the  shore  line.  There  was  nothing  now  to  fight — except  Nature.  We 
couldn't  vanquish  elemental  forces  by  talk;  we  well  knew  their  notorious 
indifference  to  oral  argument. 

The  lessening  of  the  tension  produced  a  feeling  of  chill  and  uncertainty. 
Through  the  fog  rolling  up  the  bay  we  could  see  the  friendly  lights  of  San 
Diego  and  the  ships  at  anchor.  Only  the  open  sea  and  the  fog  ahead.  Had 
we  mistaken  cocksureness  for  wisdom,  in  this  attempt  to  pit  ourselves 
against  th°  treacherous  sea  and  barren  land  to  the  south?  Too  tired  and 
dispirited  to  go  further,  we  decided  to  camp  upon  a  sand  spit  in  the  outer 
harbour  for  the  night.  Do  you  remember  how  you  felt  when  it  began  to  get 
dark,  the  first  time  you  ran  away  from  home,  when  you  were  six?  It  was  a 
little  like  that. 

We  beached  the  heavily  laden  canoe,  and  in  silence  began  unloading  her. 
The  ground  was  soon  strewn  with  all  the  well-meaning  gifts  our  kind 
friends  had  pressed  upon  us.  And  it  seemed  that  days  instead  of  hours  had 
elapsed  since  we  said  good-bye.  We  knew  that  the  canoe  could  never  be 
gotten  out  of  the  harbour  unless  we  lightened  her  load,  so  we  made  a  dis¬ 
position  of  the  gifts. 

Now  our  invariable  answer  to  the  question,  “What  will  you  eat?"  had 
been:  We  would  dine  like  kings  off  Nature’s  bounty.  That  night,  however, 
we  somehow  felt  unequal  to  the  test,  so  we  made  a  dismal  meal  from  a  box 
of  candy  and  similar  oddments. 

One  of  our  chief  immediate  concerns  was  that  some  one  who  knew  us 
would  come  along  and  see  us  sitting  on  that  sand  spit  just  outside  the 
harbour,  glumly  munching  nougat.  It  seemed — well,  sort  of  funny,  in  view 
of  all  the  build-up. 

We  knew  that  our  depression  was  partly  psychological,  for  after  all  we 
were  not  entire  strangers  to  the  life  we  were  about  to  embrace.  We  had 
spent  months — about  two  years — hardening  our  bodies,  sleeping  on  the 
ground,  and  eating  the  coarse  unpalatable  food — chiefly  corn  and  beans — 
that  we  knew  we  would  have  to  subsist  on  once  we  left  civilization.  We 
were  expert  swimmers,  good  sailors,  and  first-rate  marksmen.  There  were 
few  contingencies,  we  believed,  that  we  had  not  foreseen.  Yet  not  so  many 
months  away  from  that  sand  spit  we  were  to  risk  our  lives  for  a  can  of 
condensed  milk. 

True,  we  had  kidded  ourselves  and  each  other  a  bit  about  the  hardening 
process.  If  on  some  jaunt  we  found  the  fishing  poor,  or  felt  disinclined  to 
fish,  we  would  “skip  it  just  this  once,’’  and  go  up  town  and  demolish  a 
T-bone  steak.  If  the  place  we  had  planned  to  land  seemed  rather  craggy 
when  we  got  there,  we'd  compromise  on  some  nice  soft  beach. 

We  also  had  yet  to  learn  to  control  our  thoughts  and  discipline  our 


Prelude  to  Adventure 


5 


minds  in  the  face  of  real  peril.  We  found — not  many  days  away — that  the 
thing  most  to  be  feared  was  fear  .  .  .  that  physical  danger  and  suffering 
could  all  be  met,  provided  we  were  free  to  act.  We  learnt  in  those  bleak 
outlands  to  which  we  were  going  that  men  more  often  die  from  fear  of 
starvation  and  thirst  than  from  lack  of  food  and  water. 

At  this  precise  point,  however,  we  might  have  felt  happier  could  we  have 
planned  a  graceful  retreat  if  a  retreat  became  necessary.  But  the  news¬ 
papers  had  practically  demanded,  come  what  might,  that  we  go  on  to 
Panama.  Alas,  we  were  victims  of  the  press.  Furthermore,  we  had  indis¬ 
creetly  boasted  a  little.  Now  it  seemed  easier  to  face  the  perils  ahead  than 
the  chorus  of  “I  told  you  so's!"  behind. 

This,  then,  was  the  “Great  Adventure." 


Chapter  Two 


ADVENTURE  COMES  TO  MEET  US 

We  could  hear  the  cry  of  sea  birds,  and  the  pounding  of  the  surf  upon 
the  perpendicular  cliffs.  The  cries  fell  upon  our  ears  like  the  ghostly 
wail  of  some  far-off  locomotive  whistle  heard  at  night.  Such  sounds  pro¬ 
duce  a  strange,  nostalgic  effect  upon  the  human  spirit  that  no  words  de¬ 
scribe.  We  could  see  nothing;  an  eerie,  two-dimensional  world  of  sound 
and  fog  bounded  our  horizon. 

For  ten  days  we  had  been  on  this  small  island,  one  of  the  Coronados 
group,  about  ten  miles  south  of  San  Diego.  We  had  planned  to  make  the 
islands  our  first  stop-over  on  Mexican  soil,  though  we  had  not  intended  to 
roost  here  indefinitely.  The  Coronados  are  volcanic  rocks,  without  re¬ 
sources  of  any  kind.  An  occasional  lobster  fisherman  their  only  human 
visitor,  the  islands  remain  the  unmolested  property  of  the  sea  birds  which 
nest  upon  their  rocky  ledges. 

We  had  arrived  here  the  day  following  our  inglorious  landing  on  the 
sand  spit.  It  was  to  be  the  jumping-off  place  for  Ensenada,  sixty  miles  due 
south.  The  two  weeks'  food  supply  with  which  we  had  left  San  Diego 
seemed  ample  until  we  reached  the  Mexican  mainland,  for  it  was  to  be 
supplemented  by  the  fish  that  abounded  in  these  waters.  That  is,  the  fish 
abounded  theoretically — when  we  tried  to  catch  them,  they  became  coy 
and  elusive.  Besides,  we  were  in  no  fishing  mood.  To  the  front  and  the 
rear  of  us  our  fears  volleyed  and  thundered.  Fear  of  ridicule  if  we  turned 
back,  and  in  front  of  us  .  .  .  ?  We  were  just  plain  scared.  The  trip  had 
seemed  so  feasible — and  so  romantic — back  in  Santa  Ana.  But  on  the 
Coronados,  it  was  somehow  different. 

Fortunately,  our  premonitions  of  danger  were  vague  and  ill-defined. 
We  had  no  hint  of  the  precise  nature  of  the  events  ahead — and  it  was  just 
as  well.  For  it  is  time  enough  when  the  situation  demands  all  one’s  physical 
and  mental  resources  to  meet  it. 

So  we  just  sat,  part  of  the  time  hemmed  in  by  fog.  But  when  the  days 
were  clear  and  we  could  have  left,  we  wrote  in  our  log  anyway  “  unable  to 
leave  because  of  fog.”  The  Coronados  were  in  no  way  inspiring  to 
amateur  adventurers. 

As  I  said,  we  were  in  no  mood  to  fish,  so  when  we  discovered  lobster 
traps  belonging  to  some  absentee  owner,  we  just  moved  in  and  helped 


Adventure  Comes  to  Meet  Us  7 

ourselves.  Six  fat,  succulent  lobsters  had  fallen  before  our  hardy  appetites 
when  the  owner  of  the  trap  hove  in  sight. 

"How  are  you  fixed  for  water?"  he  greeted  us.  Our  canteens  were  nearly 
empty,  and  he  promptly  filled  them.  "And  how  would  you  like  some  lob¬ 
sters?" 

He  insisted,  over  our  protests,  on  leaving  six!  We  were  both  red  to  the 
ears  with  shame  and  embarrassment.  A  pretty  pass  we’d  come  to,  raiding 
other  people’s  lobster  pots!  Galvanized  into  life  by  our  collective  guilty 
conscience,  we  began  diving  and  soon  wrenched  twelve  astonished  lobsters 
from  their  hiding  places  underneath  the  rocks.  These  we  placed  in  the 
generous  fisherman’s  traps,  hoping  that  his  pleasure  in  finding  such  a 
catch  on  his  next  visit  would  equal  ours  when  we  discovered  his  traps. 

The  next  day  we  got  our  nerve  back,  and  paddled  away  from  the  Coro¬ 
nados  bound  for  Ensenada.  The  weather  looked  right,  and  though  there 
was  not  enough  wind  for  sailing  at  the  outset,  we  anticipated  breezes  that 
would  enable  us  to  sail  part  of  the  way  and  bring  us  into  Todos  Santos 
Bay  sometime  within  the  next  twenty-four  hours.  A  few  miles  out  from 
the  islands  we  met  a  fishing  boat  bound  for  the  mainland,  and  asked  the 
crew  to  report  us  "en  route  to  Ensenada"  with  the  approximate  time  of 
our  arrival. 

The  Vagabunda*  s  prow  shot  skyward  over  the  back  of  a  giant  wave;  white 
froth  raced  down  the  canvas  deck  and  spurted  over  the  gunwale.  "Where 
are  we?"  Ginger  stopped  bailing  long  enough  to  make  herself  heard  above 
the  scream  of  the  wind.  The  boat  plunged  through  the  crest  and  skidded 
down  into  the  trough.  Tons  of  water  smashed  against  the  thin  mahogany 
hull  of  our  cocky  sixteen-footer. 

I  didn’t  answer,  for  I  didn’t  know — it  was  anybody’s  guess.  The  tiny 
needle  of  the  compass  strapped  to  my  wrist  was  whirling  about  with  no 
regard  for  the  magnetic  north.  We  were  possibly  fifty,  maybe  sixty  or 
a  hundred  miles  off  the  coast  of  Baja  California  .  .  .  and  with  a  northeaster 
on  our  tail. 

All  day  we  had  paddled  under  a  brassy  sky  with  no  breath  of  wind  stir¬ 
ring.  Then  suddenly,  out  of  nowhere,  sometime  after  nightfall,  the  storm 
had  struck  us.  For  ten  hours  the  Vagabunda  had  been  pulling  herself  out 
from  under  the  cascades  that  boiled  over  her  stem.  A  miracle!  But  she  was 
still  together. 

When  the  Vagabunda  wallowed  in  the  troughs,  Ginger  would  bail  madly, 
while  a  mountain  of  furious  water  rushed  down  on  us  from  behind.  Then, 
as  the  wind  caught  the  close-reefed  sail  and  slammed  us  into  the  wave 
ahead,  Ginger  gripped  the  gunwale  for  dear  life. 

"The  wind's  easing  ..."  Ginger,  the  incurable  optimist,  pointed  to 
the  sail.  It  was  true;  the  wind  was  losing  some  of  its  fury. 

During  the  next  hour  only  an  occasional  gust  of  wind  bore  down  on  our 


8  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

craft  with  sufficient  force  to  test  the  Vagabunda's  seaworthiness.  And  a  few 
hours  later  she  was  riding  cumbersome  swells  with  only  the  chop-chop  of 
a  mildly  ruffled  sea  slapping  her  sides. 

“Had  enough?”  I  asked. 

This  was  my  way  of  reminding  Ginger  that  she  was  at  least  partly  re¬ 
sponsible  for  this  harebrained  adventure.  It  would  also  forestall  any  com¬ 
plaint  that  her  hair  hung  in  pasty  strings,  or  that  her  thin  clothing  was 
plastered  coldly  against  her  slender  body. 

But  she  did  not  answer. 

Ginger  and  I  had  grown  up  together. 

Not  so  many  years  before  this  day,  she  was  the  little  pig-tailed  pest 
who  tried  to  muscle  in  on  anything  we  fellows  planned  round  the  open 
fire  on  winter  evenings.  Soon  she  became  the  tomboy  whose  dirty  fingers 
smudged  the  map  of  Cocos  Island  that  hung  in  my  den.  She  was  the  young 
amazon,  as  burnt  and  as  sooty  as  the  rest  of  us,  whom  I  found  on  the  fire 
line,  after  the  smoke  of  four  hundred  acres  of  burnt-over  California  water¬ 
shed  had  cleared  away.  It  used  to  make  me  mad,  too.  For  when  there  was 
some  hazardous,  and  purely  masculine,  excitement  afoot — such  as  chasing 
a  fire  truck — you  could  bet  your  last  nickel  that  Virginia  Bishop  would 
somehow  get  wind  of  it,  and  probably  be  at  the  scene  of  action  when  you 
arrived.  These  things  were  vexing  to  the  young  male  ego.  Then  one  day, 
when  she  thought  she  was  safe  from  interference,  she  undertook  to  ride  a 
wild-eyed  broncho,  Grey  Wolf,  that  I  owned.  I  had  expressly  forbidden 
her  to  go  near  the  horse,  for  he  was  dangerous.  I  got  there  just  in  time  to 
pull  her  out  from  beneath  his  hoofs.  But  in  that  split  second,  when  I  heard 
his  maddened  squealing,  and  knew  without  question  who  it  was  he  was 
attempting  to  kill,  Ginger  ceased  to  be  “the  girl  who  lived  next  door.” 

.  .  .  And  so  we  were  married. 

It  had  been  her  suggestion  in  the  first  place  that  we  take  this  canoe  trip. 
We  had  built  the  Vagabunda  together;  had  spent  weeks  modelling  the  mud 
form  over  which  we  laid  the  keel  and  bent  the  ribs,  while  old  salts  and 
helpful  friends  looked  on  ai%d  made  suggestions. 

Our  canoe,  when  finished,  weighed  one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds,  had 
a  forty-two-inch  beam,  and  a  depth  of  twenty-four  inches.  She  carried  a 
fourteen-foot  mast,  and  with  the  jib  had  a  hundred  square  feet  of  sail.  With 
the  exception  of  a  cockpit  scarcely  big  enough  for  the  two  of  us,  she  was 
decked  over.  Into  her  construction  we  had  put  everything  we  knew,  or 
could  find  out,  about  a  sailboat,  a  surfboat,  a  canoe,  and  a  kayak.  She  was  a 
sweet  little  ship,  and  with  dreams  of  the  open  sea  and  adventure,  we 
christened  her  the  Vagabunda.  We  could  have  picked  no  better  name,  for  a 
“vagabond”  she  surely  was  to  the  end  of  her  life. 

We  started  on  our  equipment  as  soon  as  she  was  finished.  Since  none 
of  the  outfitting  companies  could  supply  us  with  the  type  of  equipment  we 


Adventure  Comes  to  Meet  Us 


9 


thought  necessary,  we  made  our  own.  This  was  a  problem  that  took  con¬ 
siderable  thought.  The  Vagabunda  had  a  capacity  of  not  more  than  five 
hundred  pounds,  Ginger  and  I,  plus  the  sails,  paddles,  and  lines,  weighed 
three  hundred  and  fifty  pounds.  That  meant  that  we  could  carry  only  one 
hundred  and  fifty  pounds  of  other  gear,  including  food  and  clothing.  The 
equipment  offered  for  sale  was  entirely  too  cumbersome.  The  lightest  tent 
with  a  canvas  floor  that  we  could  buy  weighed  eight  pounds.  Our  home¬ 
made,  insect-proof  tent  weighed  four.  Four  pounds  less  tent  to  carry  en¬ 
abled  us  to  carry  four  pounds  of  something  else,  equally  essential.  The 
tent,  sleeping  bag,  compact  mess  kit,  and  other  gear  were  of  our  own 
manufacture.  Into  two  strong,  light,  waterproof  boxes,  we  stowed  our 
food,  guns,  camera,  films,  first-aid  kit,  diaries,  fishing  gear,  and  repair 
outfit,  together  with  the  tent,  sleeping  bag  and  mess  kit.  Oh  yes,  and  our 
cash  resources  as  well:  $4.20  carefully  wrapped  in  a  bit  of  oilskin. 

So  here  we  were,  the  three  of  us,  somewhere  off  the  coast  of  Baja  Cali¬ 
fornia,  and  still  going  strong.  I  made  the  entry  in  the  day’s  log:  '‘Oct.  22. 
Position  unknown.  Northeaster  struck  us  last  night,  and  we  had  to  run 
before  it.  This  morning  we  are  becalmed  in  a  fog.  Three  gallons  of  water 
in  canteens.  Provisions  for  two  more  days.”  I  put  the  log  away  in  its 
waterproof  box,  and  settled  down  to  keep  watch. 

“Dan!  Dan!” 

Ginger  was  shaking  me.  Evidently  I  had  dozed  off. 

'‘There’s  a  ship  out  there!” 

We  could  barely  hear  the  muffled  drumming  of  a  powerful  engine.  A 
narrow  grey  bow  crept  stealthily  out  of  the  fog.  I  grabbed  for  the  steering 
paddle.  Ginger  cupped  her  hands  and  was  about  to  hail  them,  when  some¬ 
thing  in  the  craft’s  strange  outlines  made  me  hesitate. 

"Hold  it!”  I  commanded. 

"But,  Dan,  she’ll  get  away.  We  ought  to  at  least  find  out  our  position. 
Perhaps  they’ll  even  take  us  in  to  shore.” 

The  outlines  of  the  strange  craft  were  becoming  well-defined.  Long, 
low,  and  rakish,  every  line  indicated  that  she  was  built  for  speed.  She  was 
perhaps  a  hundred  and  eighty  feet  in  length,  and  her  hull  was  painted  grey. 
But  in  spite  of  her  colour  and  general  appearance,  we  knew  that  she  was  not 
a  United  States  Navy  vessel,  for  she  carried  no  identifying  numerals  upon 
her  bow.  Then  I  had  an  awful  hunch  .  .  .  somewhere  off  this  coast  the 
notorious  fleet  of  rum  runners  that  supplied  contraband  liquor  to  nominally 
bone-dry  America  had  its  anchorage.  It  was  no  place  for  Ginger. 

We  heard  a  voice  shout.  The  mysterious  boat  cut  her  engines.  A  figure 
dimmed  by  the  haze,  appeared  at  the  rail.  He  stood  there  looking  at  us 
for  several  minutes.  Then,  quite  distinctly,  we  heard  him.  "Hell’s  bells, 
It’s  a  canoe!”  Other  figures  joined  him. 

"Gimme  those  glasses!”  a  voice  commanded.  There  was  a  moment  of 


10  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

silence.  Then,  'Til  be  damned!  There’s  a  woman  in  it!”  This  was  followed 
by  an  explosion  of  profanity. 

"A  woman — a  woman!”  The  way  they  kept  repeating  that  one  word 
sent  a  chill  of  apprehension  up  my  spine.  Ginger  turned  towards  me,  her 
face  chalk-white. 

"Get  out  the  guns,”  I  said. 

I  eased  the  boat  round.  With  every  ounce  of  strength,  I  began  a  chop 
stroke  with  the  paddle.  My  hope — to  lose  ourselves  in  the  fog. 

"Hi,  you  .  .  .  !”  A  voice  like  the  bull  of  Bashan  hailed  us  from  the  deck. 
The  big  grey  vessel  glided  towards  us  with  maddening  ease. 

Ginger,  meanwhile,  had  slipped  open  the  zipper  that  held  the  canvas 
well  of  the  cockpit  in  place  and  protected  the  dunnage  beneath  the  deck 
from  water.  I  reached  out  for  the  Luger  and  the  extra  clips  of  ammunition. 
She  held  her  .22  automatic  in  her  lap. 

"Come  about  there!”  the  voice  from  the  boat  ordered.  "And  you  might 
be  telling  me  what  you’re  up  to.” 

"This  is  the  canoe  Vagabunda ,”  I  replied.  "We’re  en  route  from  San 
Diego  to  Ensenada.” 

There  was  a  chorus  of  shouts,  quickly  stopped  by  the  man  with  the 
binoculars.  "Bound  for  Ensenada,  are  you?”  he  asked  incredulously.  "Then 
you'd  better  turn  about,  you’re  heading  for  China.” 

"We  would  be  obliged,”  I  answered,  "if  you  will  report  us  safe  when 
you  make  port.”  There  was  the  sound  of  hearty  laughter  at  this. 

The  boat  was  now  close  enough  so  that  we  could  get  a  good  look  at  its 
crew.  Four  were  clean-cut  young  fellows,  but  the  fifth  was  a  large,  hairy- 
armed  brute  in  hip  boots,  wearing  a  slicker  with  the  sleeves  rolled  back. 
He  looked  like  nothing  so  much  as  Jack  London's  "Sea  Wolf.” 

There  was  the  rattle  of  glass.  A  window  in  the  pilot  house  opened,  and 
a  young  blond  head  popped  out.  "I  say  there,”  he  shouted,  "before  you 
start  for  Mexico,  you'd  best  come  aboard  for  a  cup  of  tea.” 

We  waited  expectantly  for  the  cries  of  derision  which  should  have 
greeted  this  remark,  but  the  men  on  deck  regarded  us  soberly. 

"Thanks,”  I  replied,  "but  if  you’ll  give  us  our  position,  we’ll  be  on  our 
way.” 

"You’d  best  reconsider  our  invitation,”  the  blond-headed  pilot  insisted. 
"As  for  your  position,  you’re  nearer  Davy  Jones’s  locker  than  any  other 
place  I  know  of.  Furthermore,  if  you  have  any  sense  left,  you'll  come 
aboard — before  we  come  and  get  you!” 

We  knew  he  meant  it.  Ginger  turned  to  me  and  said  quietly,  "Since  we 
can’t  get  away,  we’ll  have  to  take  a  chance.  Let’s  go.” 

Without  more  ado,  we  shoved  our  side-arms  into  our  belts,  pulled  our 
sweaters  down  over  the  gun  butts,  and  swung  alongside  the  stern  of  the 
odier  boat.  Our  blond-headed  host  was  there  to  meet  us — his  boat  so  close 


, 


* 


i  ft  r  ;  ■  ’  .  *  i  '  i>  : 


■ 


Adventure  Comes  to  Meet  Us  13 

to  the  water  that  he  only  needed  to  extend  his  hand  in  order  to  help  us 
scramble  aboard. 

"I'm  Captain  Budge,"  he  said.  I  introduced  Ginger  and  myself.  A  few 
minutes  later,  the  crew  had  the  Vagabunda  dragged  on  deck. 

"Now,  if  you'll  follow  me  we'll  do  our  best  to  warm  you  and  your  lady 
up  a  bit,"  he  said.  Then  he  turned  to  the  crew  who  stood  by,  staring. 
"Proceed  at  four  knots — and  keep  a  sharp  lookout." 

As  the  craft  got  under  way,  we  marched  along  the  steel  deck  and  past 
the  pilot  house,  through  a  very  small  hatch  and  down  a  steep  stairway  into 
a  small,  triangular  galley  jammed  in  the  bow.  The  quarters  were  cramped 
but  spotlessly  clean.  We  sat  down  on  opposite  bunks  that  served  as  benches 
during  the  day.  The  Captain  busied  himself  among  the  tea  things. 

"You  Americans  prefer  milk  and  sugar  in  your  tea,  do  you  not?"  he  said 
in  his  pleasant  English  voice. 

"We’ll  take  it  any  way — just  so  it’s  hot,"  Ginger  answered. 

"Now  tell  me,"  said  Budge,  as  we  settled  back,  "just  what  in  hell  you 
think  you’re  doing  out  in  the  middle  of  the  Pacific  in  that  cockleshell?" 

"Why — er — a — we’re  going  to  Panama,"  I  said,  somewhat  taken  aback. 

"You’re  going  zvhereW '  he  demanded. 

I  repeated. 

"In  that  funny  little  boat?" 

I  nodded. 

The  fog  horn  was  blowing  incessantly,  and  the  sound  seemed  to  irritate 
him.  He  kept  looking  towards  the  hatch.  "Pardon  me,"  he  said  finally,  and 
started  towards  the  stairway.  "If  they  don’t  stop  that  damned  racket,  they’ll 
have  every  damned  cutter  in  the  Pacific  on  our  necks." 

After  he’d  gone,  we  looked  at  each  other.  Well  .  .  .  what  have  we 
gotten  ourselves  into  now?  Something  ought  to  be  done  .  .  .  what?  Will  he 
put  us  ashore? 

Budge  returned. 

"Captain,  will  you  put  us  ashore  at  Ensenada?"  I  asked.  "And  by  the 
way,  what’s  the  name  of  your  boat?” 

He  looked  at  me  oddly  for  a  moment.  "Oh,  yes,  this  is  the  Tahyo ,  out  of 
Vancouver,"  he  answered,  "but  we  haven't  been  home  for  some  time." 

The  Tahyo  was  the  most  notorious  rum  runner  on  the  Pacific  coast. 

He  turned  abruptly  to  Ginger.  "Can  you  cook?" 

"A  little  bit;  why?" 

"Do  you  suppose,  while  we’re  taking  you  in  to  shore,  that  you  could 
bake  a  chocolate  cake?"  Ginger  smiled,  rather  dubiously.  "You  see,  we’ve 
been  on  this  craft  for  over  six  months,  and  we  haven’t  tasted  a  chocolate 
cake  for  all  that  time,"  he  explained. 

This  was  too  much  for  Ginger.  Somehow  the  two  didn’t  fit  together. 
"Rum  runners  .  .  .  chocolate  cake,"  she  said  in  a  dazed,  wondering  voice. 

"Rum  runners  or  not,"  said  the  Captain,  “we  still  zvant  a  chocolate  cake /" 


14 


Enchanted  Vagabonds 


It  would  have  been  no  greater  shock  to  have  learnt  that  Captain  Kidd’s 
favourite  tipple  was  malted  milk — ’Vanilla  flavour,  please.” 

Ginger  started  hunting  round  the  galley  for  the  “makings.”  Budge 
started  up  on  deck.  I  followed,  with  the  idea  of  keeping  an  eye  on  the  “Sea 
Wolf.” 

While  on  deck,  looking  over  the  lashings  that  the  crew  had  put  on  the 
Vagabunda ,  I  saw  the  “Sea  Wolf,”  who  answered  to  the  name  of  “Big 
Bill,”  start  towards  the  bow.  He  was  headed  for  the  galley — and  Ginger  was 
there — alone.  I  hunched  my  gun  into  a  handier  position,  and  started  after 
him.  His  great  hulk  disappeared  down  the  tiny  hatchway. 

And  then — bedlam  broke  loose.  The  smashing  of  dishes  mingled  with 
the  piercing  screams  of  Ginger.  I  ran  to  the  hatch  with  my  gun  drawn  and 
looked  down,  and  there  was  Bill,  sitting  on  the  floor  with  a  blanket  draped 
over  his  head.  He  had  slipped  going  down  the  steep  ladder,  and  reaching 
out  for  something  to  prevent  his  fall  had  grabbed  a  blanket  that  hung  over 
one  of  the  upper  bunks.  His  huge  feet  skidding  out  across  the  floor  had 
knocked  the  table  loose  from  its  moorings.  There  he  sat  in  the  midst  of 
ruin,  frantically  pawing  at  the  blanket.  Ginger,  who  had  taken  refuge  on 
the  flour  bin,  seemed  unable  to  make  up  her  mind  whether  she  was  fright¬ 
ened  or  amused. 

As  Bill  emerged  from  under  the  blanket,  he  grinned  sheepishly  and  said, 
“  'Scuse  me,  but  kin  I  lick  the  frostin’  bowl?”  So  this  was  the  “menace”  to 
my  domestic  peace!  Here  I  was  prepared  to  rescue  a  lady  in  distress,  and 
.  .  .  hell!  I  put  away  the  Luger,  feeling  very  foolish.  “Sea  Wolf,”  indeed! 
I  needed  to  curb  my  imagination. 

After  the  crew  had  polished  off  the  last  crumb  of  Ginger’s  cake,  Budge 
called  us  both  up  to  the  pilot  house.  “I’ve  changed  my  mind  about  taking 
you  to  Ensenada.  You’re  shanghaied,”  he  said  roughly. 

“But  Captain,  you  promised,”  I  protested.  All  my  fears  came  back. 

“I’ve  changed  my  mind,”  he  said  sternly.  “Ginger,  your  job  is  to  bake 
a  chocolate  cake  for  every  meal.  Dan,  you’re  production  superintendent.” 
Then  he  grinned.  “No  joking,  how  would  you  like  to  spend  a  week  with 
us  ditching  cutters?  If  you’re  out  for  adventure,  here  is  your  chance.  But  of 
course,  it’s  dangerous.” 

Ginger  and  I  nudged  each  other.  This  was  right  up  our  alley.  Our  im¬ 
pression  of  rum  runners  underwent  an  immediate  change. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  these  men  were  not  the  roughnecks  and  hoodlums 
that  the  average  person  believed  them  to  be.  They  were  mostly  ex-Navy 
men  picked  for  their  intelligence  and  ability  to  outwit  the  men  aboard  the 
United  States  revenue  cutters.  Their  job  was  to  pick  up  a  load  of  liquor  at 
“Rum  Row” — a  fleet  of  freighters  anchored  well  out  to  sea  off  the  Mexican 
coast — and  then  to  carry  this  load  up  the  coast  and  deliver  it  to  the  shore 
boats,  who  handled  it  from  there  on.  The  revenue  cutters  could  not  touch 
the  “mother  ships,”  which  were  on  the  high  seas,  well  beyond  the  juris- 


Adventure  Comes  to  Meet  Us 


15 


diction  of  the  United  States;  nor  could  they  prevent  the  “shuttle  boats/’ 
such  as  the  Tahyo,  from  contacting  them,  as  long  as  they  kept  out  of 
American  territorial  waters,  for  most  of  the  boats  engaged  in  the  business 
were  of  foreign  registry.  But  the  cutters  could,  and  sometimes  did,  capture 
the  “shuttle  boats,”  if  they  were  found  within  the  twelve-mile  limit. 

On  our  first  run  north,  we  were  “cutterized”  by  a  “six-bitter.”  To  be 
“cutterized”  means  that  a  revenue  cutter  has  attached  itself  to  the  “shuttle 
boat,”  to  prevent  it  from  contacting  the  shore  boat.  The  rum  runners 
catalogue  the  cutters  as  “two-bitters,”  which  are  the  old  type  sub-chaser; 
“four-bitters,”  the  new  type  revenue  cutters;  and  “six-bitters,”  captured 
and  converted  high-speed  rum  runners.  And  being  “cutterized”  by  a  “six- 
bitter”  was  something  to  challenge  the  resource  of  these  rum  running 
crews. 

We  tried  all  the  regular  methods  of  ditching  the  cutter,  but  she  was  too 
speedy.  Finally,  about  eleven  o'clock  that  night,  we  shut  down  our  engines 
and  put  out  all  the  lights  except  the  small  riding  light  on  the  very  short 
mast.  The  weather  was  hazy,  and  it  looked  as  though  there  might  be  a 
heavy  fog  before  morning.  The  cutter  wasn't  taking  any  chances  on  our 
remaining  “put,”  however;  she  began  circling  us  in  a  wide  orbit,  keeping 
her  engines  turning  over,  so  she  could  get  under  way  in  a  hurry,  if  we 
should  decide  to  run  for  it.  I  was  in  the  pilot  house  with  Budge,  showing 
him  how  to  make  a  leather  holster  for  his  side-arm,  when  Big  Bill  came  in. 

“How  would  you  like  to  take  a  look  at  the  engine  room?” 

“Fine,”  I  said,  and  followed  him  aft.  I  had  been  in  lots  of  engine  rooms 
in  my  time,  but  this  was  the  cleanest  and  most  efficient  one  that  I  had  ever 
seen.  A  twelve-hundred-horse-power  Diesel  engine  stood  in  the  centre, 
her  bright  work  sparkling  in  the  light.  On  each  side  of  this  great  engine 
Liberty  airplane  motors  were  set  in  tandem.  The  boat  had  three  propellers. 

“Dan,  Fve  got  a  new  idea,”  said  Bill.  “It's  fishing — fishing  for  suckers.” 
He  grinned.  “Want  to  lend  a  hand?”  I  nodded.  He  took  down  a  long 
bamboo  fishing  pole,  and  sent  me  off  to  get  Budge’s  flashlight.  When  I 
returned  with  the  flashlight,  he  removed  its  bulb,  and  fastened  it  to  the 
end  of  the  fishpole.  Then  we  ran  wires  from  the  bulb  down  to  the  end  of 
the  pole,  where  we  connected  them  to  the  flashlight  batteries.  A  small 
switch  in  the  middle  of  the  pole  completed  the  arrangements.  I  was  com¬ 
pletely  puzzled  as  to  what  he  meant  to  do  with  the  contraption.  “Suckers?” 

Then  Bill  went  round  the  room  collecting  pipe  fittings  and  weights. 
He  cut  a  small  hole  in  the  top  of  a  thirty-gallon  oil  drum,  through  which 
he  dropped  the  weights.  Together,  we  wrestled  the  big  drum  on  deck. 
Bill  took  the  fishpole,  stuck  it  through  the  small  opening  in  the  drum,  and 
lashed  it  securely  into  place.  In  response  to  my  questions,  all  he  would  say 
was,  “Wait.”  Off  through  the  haze  we  could  see  the  cutter,  still  circling 
warily. 


16  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

Bill  left  me  and  went  forward.  When  he  came  back  with  the  crew  we 
lifted  the  strange  contraption  into  the  water. 

We  waited  in  silence,  watching  the  cutter  until  she  came  astern  of  us. 
"'When  I  give  the  signal,  snap  the  switch/'  Bill  whispered.  I  leaned  over 
the  side,  he  raised  his  arm  ...  at  that  precise  moment  the  masthead  light 
went  out.  On  the  fishpole's  tip,  the  tiny  flashlight  bulb  glowed.  The  Tahyo's 
decks  began  to  vibrate  as  the  big  Diesel  turned  over. 

In  the  pilot  house,  Ginger  was  steering  the  craft  as  we  glided  off  into 
the  night,  leaving  the  revenue  cutter  going  round  and  round  our  dummy 
masthead  light! 

“Hang  on,  everybody,  we're  off — and  we’re  late.''  Budge  stepped  to 
the  engine-room  telegraph  and  shoved  all  three  indicators  “Full  speed 
ahead."  The  Tahyo  shuddered,  settled  low  in  the  water,  then,  enveloped 
in  spray,  she  raced  through  the  night,  taking  us  to  some  unknown  destina¬ 
tion. 

A  week  later,  we  cautiously  steamed  in  towards  Todos  Santos  Bay  and 
Ensenada. 

Budge  paid  not  the  slightest  attention  to  our  suggestion  that  we  be  left 
off  on  the  high  seas,  but  steamed  impudently  right  into  the  harbour.  Soon 
the  Vagabunda  was  over  the  side,  and  we  were  paddling  away  towards 
shore.  Not  even  then  did  the  Tahyo  leave.  She  circled  round  us  twice, 
tooting  her  whistle  and  ringing  her  bell,  while  the  crew  waved  good-byes. 
This  was  too  much  for  a  revenue  cutter  standing  by  in  the  harbour,  and  it 
promptly  gave  chase;  only  to  have  the  elusive  Tahyo  take  to  her  heels  and 
quickly  disappear  seaward  in  a  cloud  of  foam. 

When  we  sailed  into  Ensenada  and  presented  our  papers,  we  had  plenty 
of  explaining  to  do.  The  fishing  boat  had  reported  us  as  “en  route  to 
Ensenada,"  and  when  we  failed  to  arrive  we  were  given  up  as  lost  at  sea. 
The  very  cutters  that  the  Tahyo  had  been  playing  tag  with  had  been  search¬ 
ing  for  the  wreckage  of  our  canoe. 

After  this  ordeal  was  over,  we  started  out  to  face  the  desert  coast  of 
Baja  California. 


Chapter  Three 


THINK  FAST  OR  DIE 

Ocean  liners,  sea-going  yachts,  fishing  boats,  and  craft  of  all  kinds  pass 
daily  the  west  coasts  of  Baja  California,  Mexico,  and  Central  America, 
on  their  way  to  and  from  the  great  ports  of  the  Pacific.  Yet  in  the  year 
1933  the  maps  of  these  countries  still  had  large  areas  marked  “unexplored 
— unknown  country .”  We  used  to  wonder  why.  Surely  countries  with 
great  mineral  wealth,  potential  resources,  with  traditions  of  magnificent 
ancient  civilizations  had  as  much  to  offer  the  explorer  as  the  bleak  lands 
of  Antarctica  and  Mongolia. 

Perhaps  the  least  known  of  all  these  vast  stretches  is  Baja  California. 
As  you  approach  it  from  the  sea  it  suggests  a  land  arrested  at  some  moment 
of  its  creation,  some  great,  unfinished  building  whose  outlines  and  founda¬ 
tions  imply  its  builders'  purpose  and  intent  before  an  unforeseen  con¬ 
tingency  for  ever  prevented  its  completion.  The  huge  backbone  of  the  bleak 
Cordillera  traverses  its  length,  rising  abruptly  from  the  Pacific  Ocean  for 
its  greater  distance,  terminating  in  the  great  ranges  that  parallel  the  Gulf 
of  California.  Between  the  coastal  mountains  and  the  Sierra  de  la  Giganta 
and  Sierra  San  Pedro  Martir  ranges  of  the  Gulf  lie  deserts,  plateaus,  and 
semi-arid  valleys.  Eroded  gullies  and  arroyos,  denuded  of  earth,  support 
scant  stands  of  mesquite,  cacti  and  other  desert  growths.  Here  the  struggle 
for  life  can  be  won  only  by  the  man  who  has  stripped  himself  of  every  need 
except  the  most  elemental.  The  peninsula's  58,000  square  miles  of  wind¬ 
swept  plateaus,  deserts,  and  infrequent  oases  support  a  population  of  93,000 
people,  most  of  whom  live  in  scattered  villages  along  its  sea  coasts,  and 
near  the  American  border.  Its  great  interior  ranges  and  mountain  valleys 
are  the  unmolested  home  of  the  cougar  and  the  condor.  Torrential  cloud¬ 
bursts  and  cyclones  occur  at  periodic  intervals.  Little  wonder  that  much 
of  it  is  still  unexplored,  even  though  it  was  discovered  by  Cortez  in  the 
sixteenth  century,  and  its  settlement  attempted  when  New  England  was 
still  a  British  colony.  It  has  a  wealth  of  minerals  and  precious  stones;  its 
waters  abound  in  marine  life,  but  Baja  California,  like  Pandora's  box,  con¬ 
tains  much  beside  blessings. 

The  Jesuits  sought  to  tame  the  country's  inhabitants,  and  the  men-in-mail 
to  exploit  them;  both  failed.  But  when  the  Europeans  withdrew,  the  hardy 
natives  had  all  but  disappeared — perhaps  softened  by  European  influence 
and  diet.  This  land  offers,  in  the  true  Darwinian  sense,  survival  only  to  the 


1 8  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

fittest.  It  could  well  be  an  object  lesson  to  our  modem  prophets  of  Utopia 
who  are  always  screaming  about  some  new  dispensation  that  will  take  from 
men  the  need  for  unremitting  effort.  In  a  sense  the  Indians  of  Baja  Cali¬ 
fornia  are  a  case  in  point. 

This  then  was  the  land  which  we  had  set  ourselves  to  conquer.  I  mean 
conquer  only  in  the  sense  that  survival  itself  in  such  a  land  is  a  major  con¬ 
quest — not  only  of  environment  but  of  one's  self. 

The  second  day  out  from  Ensenada,  the  blank  checks  which  we  had  given 
Fortune,  duly  filled  out  by  the  fickle  jade,  began  to  be  presented  for  pay¬ 
ment.  No  piker,  Fortune;  she  tried  to  take  it  all! 

We  had  stopped  at  the  Island  of  San  Martin,  an  extinct  volcano  rising 
out  of  the  sea,  where  we  made  camp  on  the  beach,  between  a  Chinaman's 
grave  and  a  small  hut  made  of  whisky  cases.  Then  we  started  out  to  see 
San  Martin. 

The  slopes  of  the  volcano  were  honeycombed  with  fissures,  the  breeding 
grounds  for  great  colonies  of  cormorants,  pelicans  and  other  sea  birds.  We 
explored  the  large  crater  on  the  island's  summit,  and  were  making  our 
way  down  the  seaward  side  of  the  cone  when  we  spied  a  small  crater,  in 
the  centre  of  which  yawned  a  black  hole,  the  rocks  round  its  edges  burnt 
black.  The  crater  looked  as  though  it  needed  exploring — one  of  those 
things  that  seem  a  good  idea  at  the  time.  We  speculated  as  to  whether  the 
vent,  through  which  hot  gases  and  steam  had  escaped  during  the  volcano's 
period  of  activity,  would  go  clear  to  the  main  crater.  We  just  had  to  know, 
so  we  hurried  back  to  camp  to  secure  a  sixty-foot  lariat  and  a  couple  of 
candles. 

Returning  to  the  crater,  I  made  one  end  of  the  lariat  fast  round  a  big 
boulder  near  its  edge.  Then  I  lowered  myself  through  the*tiny  opening. 
Ginger  handed  me  the  lighted  candle,  and  I  slid  down  the  lariat  to  the  floor 
of  the  cave,  about  ten  feet  below  the  surface.  A  large  cavern  extended  in 
two  directions  from  where  I  stood. 

Ginger  attempted  the  descent  feet  first;  but  as  she  had  not  the  strength 
in  her  arms  either  to  let  herself  down  on  the  rope  or  to  pull  herself  back 
up,  she  dangled  helplessly,  half  in  and  half  out  the  tiny  opening.  To  help 
her,  I  knotted  a  stirrup  hold  in  the  rope  about  four  feet  above  the  ground, 
thinking  that  if  I  stood  in  it  her  feet  could  reach  my  shoulders.  But  just  as 
I  placed  my  foot  in  the  stirrup,  Ginger,  with  a  shower  of  rocks  and  the  rope, 
tumbled  down  on  top  of  me.  There  was  a  crash  and  we  were  in  darkness. 
Feeling  round,  I  recovered  the  candle,  lit  it,  and  looked  up.  The  big 
boulder,  round  which  I  had  tied  the  lariat,  had  rolled  down  over  the  open¬ 
ing!  We  were  trapped  inside  the  volcano. 

It  sounds  melodramatic  beyond  belief,  but  that  was  the  simple  fact.  We 
dared  not  think  about  the  implications  of  the  situation,  nor  speculate  about 
the  possibilities  of  suffocation  before  we  even  had  a  chance  to  plan  some 
method  of  escape. 


Think  Fast  or  Die  19 

“I  wonder  if  we'll  ever  get  out  of  this?"  was  all  I  could  trust  myself  to 
say. 

\  here's  only  one  way  to  find  out,  and  that's  to  start  looking  right  now, 
while  the  candles  hold  out,"  Ginger  said  quietly. 

There  were  two  passages.  One  appeared  to  lead  upward;  the  other  led 
down  a  rather  steep  declivity.  The  upward  passage  seemed  the  best  bet. 
We  began  slowly  moving  over  its  rocky,  uneven  floor  until  we  came  to  a 
place  where  it  apparently  terminated  in  an  abrupt  drop.  I  lowered  the 
candle  by  a  string  and  found  another  ledge  about  ten  feet  down.  Working 
my  way  down  over  the  edge  I  let  myself  down  as  far  as  possible  and  slid 
the  rest  of  the  way.  Ginger  followed,  and  we  continued  our  search.  Soon 
we  arrived  at  an  absolutely  impassable  place.  The  first  candle  was  almost 
burnt  out. 

We  retraced  our  steps  to  the  slide.  The  descent  to  the  lower  level  had 
been  difficult,  but  the  ascent  almost  had  us  licked.  By  using  meagre  hand¬ 
holds  on  one  side,  I  managed  to  climb  to  where  I  could  take  hold  of  the 
upper  ledge;  then  while  I  held  on,  Ginger  scrambled  up  over  my  body  and 
helped  me  up. 

Back  at  the  entrance,  only  one  course  remained — to  follow  the  downward 
passage.  One  short  hour  of  light  .  .  .  one  small  candle  .  .  .  one  long 
chance  .  .  . 

I  kept  wondering  as  we  crept  along  the  passage,  "Who  will  ever  know 
what  happened  to  us?  Some  one  will  find,  sometime  or  other,  that  neat, 
orderly  little  camp,  with  the  boat  drawn  up  beside  it — but  what  of  us?"  The 
only  encouragement  that  we  had  was  a  faint  draft  of  air  upon  our  faces  as 
we  crept  along. 

Finally  the  candle  was  all  but  gone.  I  put  the  remaining  scrap  of  wax 
on  a  rock.  It  seemed  wise  to  use  what  little  light  remained  so  that  we 
might  see  each  other  for  what  was  probably  the  last  time. 

"I  wouldn’t  mind  so  much  .  .  .  going  on  a  fighting  basis  .  .  .  but  sort 
of  crawling  out — well  .  .  .  ?  Ginger  managed  a  wan  smile. 

"There  goes  the  light,"  I  said.  "Let's  start  crawling.  Anything  is  better 
than  this  damned  inactivity." 

I  led  the  way,  round  and  over  the  huge  boulders  that  blocked  the  dark 
passage.  On  and  on  we  crawled;  our  hands  and  knees  bruised  and  bleeding 
from  the  rough,  slashing  surfaces,  our  faces  always  turned  towards  that 
tiny  bit  of  draft.  Several  times  we  came  to  sheer  drop-offs.  Tossing  a  rock 
in  the  darkness,  we  could  hear  it  rattle  far  below  in  some  dark  cavern.  This 
meant  retracing  that  tortuous  trail,  inch  by  inch,  until  we  found  another 
passage.  The  blood  pounded  in  our  ears.  We  could  hardly  hear  each  other’s 
voices.  We  became  dizzy  and  lost  all  sense  of  direction. 

We  had  spoken  no  word  for  a  long  time.  My  mouth  was  dry  and  sticky. 

I  stopped  and  stood  up,  helping  Ginger  up  beside  me,  and  tried  to  speak, 


20  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

but  the  words  came  with  difficulty.  “Draft — stronger — somewhere,"  was 
all  I  could  manage. 

Ginger  put  her  arm  around  my  shoulders.  “Look!  light — up  there."  I 
raised  my  head — above  us  there  were  specks  of  light. 

“Out!"  I  cried. 

By  a  one-in-a-million  chance,  we  had  emerged  through  one  of  those 
tiny  fissures  that  we  had  seen  on  our  way  up  the  slope.  Exhausted,  we  lay 
down  on  the  rocky  ground,  watching  the  stars  through  the  cloud  rifts. 

*  In  the  grey  light  of  dawn,  we  stumbled  our  way  round  the  island  and 
into  camp.  Ginger  immediately  got  out  the  coffee  pot.  “Dan,"  she  said, 
“next  time  we  explore  a  cave  like  that  one  I'm  going  to  wear  knee-pads." 

“Lady,  you're  lucky  to  have  any  knees  left  to  put  them  on,"  I  reminded 
her.  “And  by  the  way,  I'll  take  my  knee-pads  now — in  the  form  of  flap- 
jacks." 

After  we'd  eaten  breakfast,  Ginger  lifted  the  canteen  and  shook  it. 
“Another  pretty  surprise.  We're  almost  out  of  water." 

I  promised  that  after  a  good  sleep,  and  another  meal,  we'd  load  the 
canoe,  and  go  to  the  mainland  and  see  if  we  couldn't  find  some. 

The  next  morning,  but  little  the  worse  for  our  experiences,  we  hoisted 
sail,  and  started  down  the  coast  looking  for  water. 

We  knew  that  water  was  scarce,  but  we  had  yet  to  learn  just  how  scarce. 
Springs  and  wells  that  we  had  been  told  to  look  for  had  dried  up  or  were 
just  not  there.  Places  marked  on  the  map  turned  out  to  be  non-existent.  We 
would  find  an  old  adobe  ruin  or  the  long-abandoned  relics  of  some  com¬ 
mercial  enterprise  instead  of  the  village  or  hacienda  marked  on  the  map. 
We  began  to  have  a  sinking  feeling.  We  could  do  without  a  lot  of  things 
but  we  had  to  have  water. 

We  came  at  last  to  a  little  bay  that  was  supposed  to  have  a  spring.  The 
promise  of  water  was  sufficient  reason  for  shooting  the  heavy  surf.  We 
landed  and  began  looking  for  the  spring,  but  to  our  great  disappointment 
it  was  not  there.  On  the  north  shore  there  was  the  wreck  of  a  boat,  and 
back  in  a  little  ravine,  away  from  the  beach,  we  found  the  remains  of  a 
pathetic  attempt  to  build  a  shelter.  Two  shallow  graves  on  a  nearby  knoll 
were  further  evidences  of  tragedy. 

“Two  graves,"  I  said.  “Wonder  what  happened  to  the  third  fellow? 
No  one  left  to  bury  him — coyotes,  maybe." 

Looking  carefully  through  the  hut,  we  found  several  cans  of  food  rusted 
and  spoiled.  It  was  evident  that  the  shipwrecked  crew  had  had  food  but  no 
water. 

Ginger  sighed  dolefully  as  I  said,  “We  will  have  to  think  of  some  way 
to  get  water,  even  on  this  beach.  Let’s  go  out  to  the  wreck  and  see  what 
we  can  find." 

The  old  derelict  contained  quite  a  bit  of  gear — even  the  engine  was 


Think  Fast  or  Die  21 

still  in  place.  I  salvaged  a  piece  of  copper  tubing  about  two  feet  long.  On 
the  beach  we  found  two  five-gallon  oil  cans  in  fair  condition.  These  cans 
litter  the  coasts  from  Alaska  to  Tierra  del  Fuego,  I  suppose.  We  found 
them  everywhere.  We  carried  our  spoils  back  to  camp  and  sat  down  and 
looked  at  them.  Two  five-gallon  cans  and  a  piece  of  tubing  ought  to  spell 
water,  if  we  could  find  out  how  to  fit  those  letters  together.  We  had  a 
fire  and  the  Pacific  ocean  for  additional  material. 

Of  course/'  speculated  Ginger,  “we  could  make  a  still  if  we  had 
enough  tubing  for  a  coil  to  condense  the  steam — but  we  haven’t." 

I  began  to  remember  stories  of  other  outfits  who  had  made  fresh  water 
by  distilling  sea  water,  but  all  of  them  seemed  to  have  had  a  terrible  time 
doing  it.  Some  sailors  had  told  a  woeful  tale  of  being  adrift  on  a  disabled 
ship  in  the  Atlantic  for  two  years.  They  had  made  a  little  still,  which  they 
dared  not  leave  day  or  night.  One  man  spent  all  his  time  pouring  cold  water 
on  the  rifle  barrel  which  they  had  used  for  a  pipe,  to  cool  it  sufficiently  to 

cause  the  steam  to  condense.  We  would  have  to  think  of  a  better  solution 
than  that. 

‘Damn!"  I  said.  “We've  spent  two  years  training  our  bodies  for  this 
trip,  but  we  ve  neglected  the  most  important  thing — how  to  think  in  terms 
of  this  coast.  We've  always  taken  water  for  granted.  From  now  on  there 
will  be  a  lot  of  other  things  we  can't  take  for  granted  too." 

Well,  and  why  not?  At  home  water  comes  from  a  tap.  Fve  never  had 
to  think  about  water  before,"  Ginger  answered. 

“But  we  both  had  physics  and  chemistry  in  college,  and  we  ought  to 
know  how  to  make  water,  with  that  background,"  I  argued. 

I  know  the  formula,  if  that's  any  help,"  Ginger  offered.  “All  I  ever 
did  in  ‘lab'  was  read  the  manual,  follow  instructions,  and  there  it  was. 
Besides,  I  wasn't  sent  to  college  to  think.  I  was  sent  to  learn  what  other 
people  had  found  out.  If  I  did  that  I  got  a  good  grade." 

We  sat  round  for  half  an  hour  drawing  diagrams.  Finally,  as  the  result 
of  our  deliberations,  I  whittled  two  wooden  plugs,  drilled  holes  through 
them  for  tubing;  dug  two  pits  in  the  sand,  built  a  fire  in  one,  and  put  one 
can  two-thirds  full  of  sea  water  over  it.  In  the  other  pit  I  put  the  empty  tin, 
and  on  top  of  it  the  shipwrecked  crew’s  rusted  two-pound  coffee  can  full  of 
sea  water.  In  places  the  rust  had  eaten  through  its  sides  so  that  a  thin 
stream  of  water  constantly  dripped  on  the  oil  can  and  kept  it  cool.  Soon 
the  water  was  boiling  and  steam  whistled  round  the  plugs,  whose  fit  was 
far  from  perfect.  In  about  an  hour  I  dismantled  the  still  and  picked  up  the 
can  that  had  been  empty.  I  was  surprised  at  its  weight.  I  poured  some  of 
the  hot  liquid  into  a  cup  and  tasted  it.  It  was  perfectly  sweet  water. 

“Whoops!"  said  Ginger.  “A  quart  an  hour — that  will  keep  us  going." 
We  kept  the  still  going  all  day  and  by  sundown  we  had  both  canteens 
full  and  enough  water  for  Ginger  to  wash  out  a  few  clothes,  though  we  had 
a  sense  of  guilt  in  using  water  for  washing  where  other  men  had  died  of 


22  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

thirst.  Later  we  were  forced  to  devise  methods  of  obtaining  water  which 
made  our  first  triumph  seem  like  child’s  play. 

The  next  morning  we  got  off  to  an  early  start  down  the  coast.  Our 
course  paralleled  a  barren  shore  whose  cliffs  were  broken  by  an  occasional 
arroyo  filled  with  boulders.  After  some  hours  of  sailing  we  began  to  watch 
for  a  place  to  land.  A  narrow  little  cove  backed  by  greyish-brown  boulders 
offered  the  best  possibilities,  so  we  picked  up  a  swell  and  shot  the  breaker 
line.  Before  the  canoe  grounded  I  jumped  out  and  right  there  got  one  of  the 
surprises  of  my  life.  The  brown  boulders  came  to  life  and  began  moving 
towards  the  canoe.  We  had  landed  in  a  seal  rookery.  Dodging  a  herd  of 
sea  lions  was  a  new  experience,  but  we  managed  it  without  casualties  on 
either  side.  The  beach  was  uninhabitable,  however,  for  a  seal  rookery  does 
not  smell  like  violets.  Disappointed,  we  abandoned  the  cove  and  started 
out  to  sea  once  more. 

Had  we  known  that  we  would  find  no  other  landing  that  night  and  would 
have  to  fight  a  thunderstorm  at  sea  into  the  bargain,  we  probably  would 
not  have  been  so  fastidious  and  would  have  shared  potluck  with  the  seals, 
irrespective  of  their  personal  habits.  As  it  was  we  spent  the  night  fighting 
the  worst  storm  in  our  experience. 

Along  towards  morning  Ginger  said,  “If  we  keep  afloat  in  this  storm 
I'll  never  be  afraid  of  another.  I  thought  the  storms  we  fought  while  in 
training  were  bad  enough.” 

“All  your  life,”  I  said,  “you’ve  tagged  me  round  looking  for  adventure. 
Now  you’ve  got  it.  How  do  you  like  it?” 

“Just  fine,”  she  retorted,  “only  I’d  prefer  this  kind  of  an  adventure  in 
daylight.  It  isn’t  what  I  thought  it  would  be,  with  just  an  occasional  flash 
of  lightning  to  show  you  what  you’re  doing.  I’ve  bailed  out  the  Pacific 
ocean  at  least  twice  and  my  arms  are  so  tired  I  think  they’re  going  to  drop 
off.” 

Daylight  revealed  our  situation.  We  were  about  ten  miles  off  shore  and 
had  been  blown  past  San  Quintin  Bay  where  we  had  intended  to  land.  We 
ate  an  unpalatable  breakfast  of  tortillas  soaked  in  salt  water.  The  wind 
blew  from  first  one  direction  and  then  another,  and  by  noon  we  were  still 
three  miles  off  the  beach. 

Suddenly  we  heard  a  great  commotion  on  the  seaward  side  of  us.  It 
sounded  like  the  roar  of  heavy  surf.  On  the  horizon  the  water  was  dun  ned 
to  white  foam.  The  sound  grew  louder  as  the  white  foam  moved  steadily 
in  our  direction.  We  lowered  the  sail  and  cleared  the  decks  for  action. 
After  the  storm  we  were  not  particularly  anxious  for  additional  excitement. 
Now  the  foam  was  streaked  with  black.  Soon  we  could  see  great  shapes 
leaping  high  into  the  air  and  falling  back  into  the  water  with  such  force 
that  it  was  churned  to  spray. 

“Dan,  it’s  a  school  of  porpoises  and  there  must  be  thousands  of  them. 
Look!  That  white  line  must  be  at  least  two  miles  long.” 


Think  Fast  or  Die 


23 


We  pointed  the  canoe  round  to  meet  the  assault,  hoping  that  they 
wouldn’t  run  over  us.  For  twenty  minutes  we  watched  the  school  go  by. 
They  dived  and  splashed  round  the  boat,  filling  the  cockpit  with  spray. 
They  were  five  to  eight  feet  long  and  so  numerous  that  the  water  was 
black  with  them.  Finally  the  last  stragglers  leapt  and  splashed  by  and 
we  heaved  sighs  of  relief. 

With  our  minds  on  hot  coffee  and  dry  blankets  we  headed  for  the  beach. 
We  could  see  Baja  Point  and  knew  that  on  the  other  side  of  it  would  be 
Rosario  Bay.  There  were  other  reasons  besides  the  coffee  for  hurrying.  The 
horizon  was  darkening  in  the  west  and  the  rising  wind  gave  warning  that 
another  storm  was  on  the  way.  We  reefed  sail  and  zoomed  before  the  wind, 
just  outside  the  breaker  line  and  into  Rosario  Bay. 

The  surf  was  high  and  the  shore  was  rocky — always  matters  for  appre¬ 
hension  to  us,  since  one  injudicious  landing  could  do  a  lot  of  damage  to  the 
Vagabunda  s  canvas  bottom. 

I  took  the  sail  down,  lashed  it  on  deck,  fastened  two  long  lines  on  to  the 
sides  and  let  them  trail  astern. 

"What  are  those  lines  for?"  Ginger  wanted  to  know. 

"Safety  lines.  If  the  canoe  goes  ashore  too  fast,  we'll  jump  overboard, 
grab  the  lines  and  hold  it  back." 

We  paddled  in  near  to  the  breakers,  waited  for  a  low  wave,  and  with 
it  shot  in  close  to  shore.  Just  before  we  reached  the  beach  we  both  jumped 
out  and  grabbed  the  canoe.  Ginger  held  the  canoe  in  water  about  waist 
deep,  while  I  unzipped  the  cockpit  and  carried  the  camp  gear  to  the  beach. 
As  soon  as  the  canoe  was  empty  I  took  the  paddles  and  the  centreboard 
and  laid  them  on  the  beach  just  above  the  high-water  line.  Then,  with 
Ginger  at  one  end  and  me  at  the  other,  we  gently  carried  the  canoe  and 
laid  it  on  the  centreboard  and  paddles.  This  is  the  way  we  landed  on  almost 
every  beach.  In  this  manner  we  prevented  the  canoe  from  coming  in  contact 
with  the  rocks  which  would  bruise  the  canvas  and  soon  start  a  leak.  During 
our  three  years  of  travel  the  bottom  of  the  canoe  never  touched  the  beach 
except  when  we  were  unable  to  prevent  it. 

We  had  a  camp  routine  which  we  maintained  throughout  the  trip.  After 
landing,  I  built  a  fire  while  Ginger  got  out  her  mess  kit  and  started  prepa¬ 
rations  for  the  meal.  Then  I  set  up  the  tent.  If  we  were  in  the  vicinity  of 
game  we  both  took  a  hike  while  the  coffee  water  boiled  and  the  fire  made 
a  bed  of  coals  to  cook  on.  If  we  were  not  in  hunting  country,  I  fished  while 
she  started  cooking.  We  had  agreed  upon  a  division  of  duties,  and  by 
team  work  in  handling  the  canoe  and  in  making  and  breaking  camp,  we 
managed  with  a  minimum  of  confusion. 

On  this  particular  evening,  while  Ginger  made  the  long-awaited  coffee 
I  caught  a  mess  of  jack  smelt.  As  I  started  to  dig  a  hole  in  the  sand  to  rinse 
them  in,  I  made  a  discovery — clams.  They  were  so  closely  packed  that 
a  few  square  feet  of  beach  yielded  twenty. 


24  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

There  was,  in  this  wilderness,  a  sense  of  peace  and  freedom.  We  had 
ceased  fretting  over  the  future  and  what  tomorrow  would  bring.  We 
lived  in  a  timeless  world  where  each  day  was  complete  in  itself  and  one 
accepted  whatever  it  brought  without  cavilling. 

The  next  morning  we  made  an  early  start  and  after  two  spills  managed 
to  get  out  through  the  heavy  surf.  In  the  late  afternoon  we  came  to  San 
Gerdnimo  Island  where,  after  a  fruitless  search  for  a  place  to  land,  we 
finally  tied  the  canoe  in  a  kelp  bed  and  spent  the  night.  San  Geronimo  is  a 
great  rock  with  a  covering  of  ash,  sand,  and  guano,  surrounded  by  kelp 
beds  and  rocks.  There  I  had  the  bad  luck,  while  trying  to  land  a  big  fish, 
to  step  on  the  gaff  (a  large  hook  on  the  end  of  a  pole)  and  run  the  point 
about  half  an  inch  into  my  heel. 

After  leaving  San  Geronimo  Island  we  sailed  on  down  to  San  Carlos 
Point,  past  barren,  rocky  beaches  with  high  bluffs  coming  down  to  the 
water's  edge.  We  landed  near  the  point  and  found  the  wreck  of  a  twenty- 
two-ton  schooner,  its  name  illegible.  It  had  been  wrecked,  we  thought, 
not  more  than  six  months  prior  to  our  landing.  Its  Diesel  engines  were 
still  in  good  shape.  The  beach  was  strewn  with  wreckage:  parts  of  old 
sailing  vessels,  timbers,  cabin  fittings,  and  weather-beaten  life  preservers. 
A  careful  search  of  the  beach  disclosed  the  camp  of  the  shipwrecked  crew, 
the  remains  of  a  fire  and  an  old  can  with  coffee  grounds  in  it — but  no 
evidence  as  to  what  had  befallen  the  survivors. 

We  sat  round  the  campfire  that  night  discussing  this  country.  Baja 
California  was  evidently  a  place  where  you  thought  fast  or  died. 

There  was  so  much  to  see  and  explore  on  this  beach  and  in  the  back 
country  that  we  stayed  here  several  days.  Although  there  was  no  fresh 
water,  sea  food  was  abundant  and  we  lived  well.  I  made  a  lobster  pot  out 
of  driftwood  and  caught  three.  At  low  tide  there  were  also  mussels  and 
clams. 

My  injured  foot  had  begun  to  pain  me,  and  from  its  appearance  I  knew 
that  infection  had  set  in.  It  had  long  been  my  conviction  that  an  injured 
part  of  the  body  heals  more  quickly  if  it  is  used  than  if  it  is  pampered.  This 
may  be  contrary  to  medical  opinion  on  the  treatment  of  infections,  but  at 
least  it  worked  in  my  case.  In  addition  to  keeping  the  wound  clean  I  walked 
on  it  at  every  opportunity.  This  caused  a  constant  drainage  from  the  in¬ 
fected  area  and  I  believe  hastened  its  healing. 

In  support  of  this  theory  we  decided  to  take  a  walk  into  the  back  country, 
and  the  next  morning  scaled  the  high  bluffs  that  rise  almost  from  the 
water's  edge.  On  the  mesa  above  there  were  evidences  of  newly  dug  earth, 
marked  with  cairns.  We  speculated  as  to  what  might  be  buried  there,  but 
as  a  cursory  examination  yielded  nothing,  we  abandoned  the  inquiry.  As 
we  walked  inland  we  saw  rich  outcroppings  of  copper  ore,  quartz,  and 
gypsum.  After  a  considerable  climb  we  came  to  another  high  mesa.  Here 
was  a  big  pile  of  coke,  at  least  ten  tons  of  it.  From  the  coke  pile  a  trail  led 


Think  Fast  or  Die  25 

further  inland,  and  we  assumed  that  at  some  time  mining  operations  had 
been  carried  on  near-by. 

On  our  inland  trips  we  frequently  came  across  the  relics  of  abandoned 
commercial  enterprises.  Whether  their  abandonment  was  always  due  to 
the  unyielding  nature  of  the  land,  or  to  the  various  political  upheavals  that 
have  kept  Mexico  in  turmoil  for  many  years,  it  is  hard  to  say.  Doubtless, 
when  men  need  to  utilize  the  vast  mineral,  and  other  resources  of  Baja 
California,  a  way  will  be  found  to  do  so.  In  the  meantime,  only  those  men 
prepared  to  risk  defeat  and  inured  to  hardships  should  attempt  its  ex¬ 
ploitation.  There  are  too  many  reminders  of  their  predecessors'  failures. 

After  we  left  San  Carlos  we  sailed  down  the  coast  close  to  high  bluffs 
of  red  volcanic  rock  and  yellow  sandstone.  A  strong  northwest  wind  soon 
had  us  skimming  along  under  double-reefed  sail.  Late  in  the  afternoon  we 
rounded  Canoas  Point  and  wet,  cold  and  hungry,  decided  to  share  the 
beach  with  a  large  herd  of  sea  lions.  The  seals  were  anything  but  pleased 
at  our  intrusion.  One  old  bull  who  made  his  home  in  a  battered  metal  life¬ 
boat  which  was  half  submerged  in  the  sand  was  particularly  indignant. 
He  remained  in  the  boat  barking  insults  both  day  and  night.  The  wind  was 
blowing  a  gale  by  now  and,  seals  or  no  seals,  we  dared  not  put  to  sea  again. 

The  wreck  of  the  fishing  boat  JVelfarer  lay  just  off' shore.  On  its  seaward 
side  in  six-foot  letters  was  the  word  “help"  and  an  arrow  pointing  in  the 
direction  of  a  narrow  canyon.  In  the  canyon  we  found  two  shacks  but  no 
crew.  On  the  beach  were  two  battered  lifeboats  (now  the  homes  of  seals), 
lobster  pots,  potato  crates,  a  woman's  high-heeled  slipper,  ragged  blue 
jeans,  and  a  sailor's  hat.  There  was  something  indescribably  lonely  and 
tragic  about  these  beaches  with  their  mute  evidences  of  disaster.  We  found 
them  often  and  they  always  left  us  with  a  feeling  of  desolation. 

Along  this  section  of  the  coast  there  was  little  to  differentiate  one  day's 
routine  from  the  next.  The  surf  was  always  dangerously  high,  the  landings 
uniformly  difficult.  The  country  behind  the  rocky  beaches  was,  with  few 
exceptions,  cactus-covered  desert.  The  scant  vegetation  was  heavily 
armoured  with  daggerlike  thorns  to  repel  invaders.  Its  cell  structure  was 
cunningly  contrived  to  retain  and  store  every  bit  of  moisture  that  could 
be  extracted  from  the  air  or  from  the  ground.  A  few  birds  made  their 
homes  in  these  cacti  and  we  also  saw  occasional  reptiles  and  rodents. 

We  were  not  able  to  do  nearly  so  much  exploring  in  the  back  country  as 
we  wished.  The  problems  of  food,  water,  and  finding  a  place  to  land  (and 
getting  there  after  we  found  it)  necessarily  took  up  most  of  our  time.  Our 
dependence  on  the  beaches  for  food  cut  down  the  radius  of  our  operations 
away  from  it  considerably.  For  like  the  life  round  us  we  were  stripped 
to  the  fundamentals,  not  only  in  our  way  of  living,  but  in  our  thinking  as 
well.  Survival  meant  cutting  the  cloth  of  our  desires  to  fit  the  circumstances 
of  our  environment.  Some  one  has  said  that  “Civilization  is  a  magnificent 
segregation  of  the  non-essentials."  Baja  California  gave  a  new  meaning 


26  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

and  interpretation  to  the  essentials.  Here  they  often  meant  the  least  we 
could  survive  on,  and  it  took  unremitting  effort  to  obtain  them. 

One  of  our  most  difficult  adjustments  was  the  regulation  of  our  bodies' 
reaction  to  our  diet.  Used  to  having  quantities  of  milk,  butter,  eggs,  and 
other  easily  digested  foods,  our  digestive  juices  seemed  unable  to  cope 
with  the  problem  of  extracting  nourishment  from  the  coarsely  ground  corn 
and  the  low  protein  fish  diet.  At  first  we  were  always  hungry,  and  we 
gained  little  satisfaction  from  our  meals.  Later  on  this  discomfort  passed 
away  and  our  stomachs  became  hardy  enough  to  have  coped  with  shoe 
leather.  In  spite  of  the  lack  of  variety  in  our  diet  we  were  in  perfect  health, 
and  our  outdoor  life  seemed  to  agree  with  us.  We  could  see  the  increase 
in  the  size  of  our  muscles,  and  our  endurance  had  doubled.  There  was  also 
a  decided  difference  in  our  mental  reactions  to  situations  that  would  for¬ 
merly  have  bothered  and  worried  us. 

After  leaving  Canoas  Point  our  next  port  of  call  was  Blanca  Point. 
Here  the  surf  was  dangerously  high — at  least  twenty  feet.  While  we  were 
waiting  for  the  calm  spell — that  is,  the  low  breaker  in  the  series — a  big 
sea  caught  us  and  we  came  in  end  over  end.  A  sorrier  looking  pair  of 
adventurers  you  never  saw — bruised,  our  clothing  torn,  and  covered  with 
sand.  The  coyotes  here  were  very  troublesome;  some  of  them  were  even 
bold  enough  to  come  right  into  camp. 

A  bit  beyond  the  point  lay  the  little  bay  of  Playa  Maria.  The  beach 
looked  inviting  and  we  stayed  there  several  days.  There  were  fine  white 
sand  dunes  that  offered  a  roller-coaster  ride  full  of  thrills — we  slid  on  our 
stomachs — and  there  was  also  good  swimming,  fishing,  and  hunting. 

Certainly  the  old  saying,  “When  the  tide  is  out,  the  table  is  set,"  applied 
to  this  beach.  We  ate  abalones,  mussels,  clams,  lobsters,  crabs,  and  large 
jack  smelt.  A  square  yard  of  beach  would  yield  a  gunny  sack  full  of  the 
most  succulent  clams  you  ever  tasted.  We  found  fifteen  pearls  of  various 
sizes  and  shapes  in  the  mussels.  On  one  of  our  hikes  in  the  back  country 
we  found  a  deep  canyon  in  which  there  were  many  quail,  deer,  and  foxes. 
I  had  the  good  fortune  to  shoot  a  young  deer  and  we  had  the  welcome 
change  of  venison  for  supper.  The  balance  of  the  meat  we  prepared  to  take 
with  us  by  cutting  it  into  strips  and  hanging  it  on  crosspieces  over  the 
fire  to  dry.  We  always  tried  to  build  up  a  food  reserve  whenever  possible 
from  these  infrequent  windfalls.  We  killed  nothing  for  sport,  and  never 
more  than  we  could  use.  We  often  thanked  our  lucky  stars  that  the  “game 
hog,"  so  prevalent  among  a  certain  class  of  Americans,  had  not  preceded  us. 

From  now  on,  travelling  along  the  coast  would  be  more  difficult,  if  any¬ 
thing,  and  it  was  evident  that  the  canoe  was  still  too  heavily  loaded  to  ride 
out  the  storms  that  blow  off  these  shores.  Now  that  we  were  past  the 
tenderfoot  stage  we  felt  that  we  could  safely  dispense  with  some  of  our 
extra  equipment,  such  as  a  fire  grate,  extra  tools,  and  so  forth,  so  we  left 
them  on  the  beach  when  we  sailed  away. 


Think  Fast  or  Die 


27 


The  cliffs  along  this  coast  gave  evidences  of  heavy  mineralization.  Their 
faces  were  streaked  with  iron  and  copper  oxides,  and  quartz  outcroppings 
of  exceeding  promise  were  plentiful.  Ahead  of  us  now  lay  Scammon’s 
Lagoon,  one  of  the  most  famous  spots  along  the  coast. 

We  reefed  sail  when  we  reached  what  we  thought  was  the  entrance  to 
this  extensive  lagoon,  and  skimmed  along  just  outside  the  breakers.  The 
further  we  went,  the  further  out  to  sea  the  breakers  extended.  We  were 
three  miles  off  shore  and  a  creaming  line  of  breakers  whitened  the  entire 
distance  between  us  and  the  coast.  We  realized  that  somehow  we  had 
passed  the  entrance.  Turning  round  we  tacked  back,  scanning  the  surf  for 
a  possible  channel — there  was  not  a  break  in  the  line  of  foaming  water.  I 
stood  up  in  the  canoe  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  could  see  a  small  area  of 
calm  water  just  inside  the  breaker  line. 

“I  think  there  is  a  channel,"  I  said  to  Ginger,  "but  we  are  going  to  have 
to  shoot  very  heavy  surf  to  enter  it.  How  about  giving  up  the  idea  of  going 
to  Scammon's?" 

"No,"  she  said  positively,  "not  unless  it  can't  be  done.  We've  finished 
everything  so  far  that  we’ve  started  on  this  trip — it  would  set  a  bad  prece¬ 
dent." 

We  unshipped  the  mast,  and  lashed  down  everything,  including  the 
paddles,  which  we  fastened  with  lanyards  long  enough  to  give  us  the  use 
of  them. 

We  ran  a  line  round  the  gunwales  through  the  ring  bolts,  for  hand 
holds  in  case  we  should  spill.  We  trailed  astern  two  lines  about  fifty  yards 
long,  so  that  if  we  turned  over  we  could  swim  across  the  wake  of  the  canoe, 
grab  the  lines  and  not  lose  it. 

When  everything  was  ready  we  headed  in  towards  the  breaker  line  and 
waited  for  the  calm  spell — there  was  none.  Big  seas  were  coming  in  our 
direction  and  we  hastily  tried  to  paddle  out  of  the  way.  Too  late — one 
caught  us  astern  and  lifting  us  high  in  the  air,  almost  tossed  us  out  as  it 
carried  us  swiftly  towards  the  shore. 

Ginger,  in  the  cockpit,  was  paddling  first  to  one  side  and  then  the  other 
in  an  attempt  to  keep  the  canoe  from  skidding  sideways.  But  in  spite  of 
our  desperate  efforts  the  canoe  rolled  over  on  its  side.  I  grabbed  tor  the 
safety  line  on  the  gunwale,  caught  it  with  one  hand  and  held  it  as  the  canoe 
rolled  like  a  log  towards  the  beach.  With  every  roll  I  was  either  dragged 
down  into  the  water  or  tossed  into  the  air.  Everytime  I  came  up  I  looked 
frantically  for  Ginger.  It  was  impossible  to  see  anything  behind  me  for  the 
foam  of  the  following  sea  was  too  high.  My  heart  sank  as  I  realized  that 
somewhere  in  those  breakers  she  had  been  washed  off — at  least  two  miles 
from  shore.  The  only  thing  I  could  do  was  to  try  to  stop  this  rolling  and 
get  the  canoe  back  through  the  breakers  to  Ginger.  I  knew  that  if  I  worked 
my  way  back  to  the  stern  of  the  canoe  and  took  hold  of  the  trailing  lines 
my  body  would  act  as  a  drag.  Each  time  the  canoe  rolled  over  dragging 


28  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

me  with  it  I  thought  my  arms  were  being  tom  from  their  sockets.  To  work 
my  way  along  the  rolling  canoe  was  the  hardest  thing  I  hope  I  am  ever 
called  upon  to  do,  but  finally  I  got  back  to  the  line  and  swung  the  stern 
end  of  the  boat  round  to  the  breakers.  As  I  began  to  crawl  back  along 
the  line  to  the  canoe,  Ginger  emerged  from  somewhere  and  climbed  on 
deck.  My  relief  was  so  great  that  I  almost  dropped  the  line.  I  got  on 
board  and  heard  Ginger  say,  “Thank  God!  I  thought  you  were  washed 
overboard.  I've  been  almost  frantic  trying  to  think  of  some  way  to  get 
back  to  you." 

Each  of  us  had  been  clinging  to  safety  lines  on  opposite  sides  of  the 
canoe! 

The  canoe  had  lost  momentum,  and  though  the  breakers  were  still  high 
they  did  no  further  damage.  We  had  a  difficult  time,  however,  paddling 
through  them  to  the  quiet  waters  of  the  channel.  Soon  the  shore  line  closed 
in  on  either  side,  and  as  we  struck  a  current  we  knew  that  we  were  in  the 
lagoon  itself.  We  edged  away  from  the  breakers  and,  laying  aside  the 
paddle,  I  said,  “Well,  here  we  are!" 

Ginger  looked  at  me,  her  face  contorting  like  a  baby's  as  she  started  to 
cry.  “What  on  earth  is  the  matter  now?"  I  asked. 

“Oh,  nothing,  I'm  just  frightened,"  she  sobbed. 

“Afraid  of  what?"  I  asked.  “We're  safe  now.  It  would  be  more  natural 
to  be  afraid  of  something  when  it  was  happening,  not  when  it  is  over." 

“I'm  frightened  just  the  same,  and  I'm  going  to  keep  on  crying  whether 
you  like  it  or  not.  When  the  thing  I'm  frightened  of  is  happening  I  haven't 
time  to  cry — you  can't  blame  me  if  I  take  time  out  now,"  she  answered. 

We  spent  over  a  week  in  Scammon's.  The  waters  of  the  great  lagoon 
are  uncharted  and  there  are  many  sand  bars  and  islets  along  its  length. 
It  is  visited  from  time  to  time  by  fishermen  and  turtle  hunters,  but  we 
saw  no  signs  of  its  present  occupation  by  men.  The  channels  of  blue-green 
water  twisted  and  turned.  Great  glistening  dunes,  reefs  of  clam  shells,  here 
and  there  the  whitening  bones  of  whales,  a  few  scattered  chollas  and  other 
grotesque  cacti  forms  gave  the  landscape  the  strange  and  eerie  aspect  of 
some  lost  and  primeval  world.  Its  profound  silences  were  accentuated  by 
the  shrill  cries  of  sea  birds  and  the  ceaseless  movement  of  water. 

One  morning  we  were  ready  once  more  to  pit  ourselves  against  the 
tremendous  surf  line  at  the  bar.  Again  we  had  prepared  the  canoe  for  an 
emergency.  The  tide  was  going  out  fast  and  with  the  strong  current  we 
should  be  able  to  clear  the  entrance  in  a  hurry.  We  dug  in  our  paddles  and 
headed  into  the  crashing  breaker  line.  As  the  bow  of  the  canoe  rose  with 
the  first  comber,  I  shouted  to  Ginger,  “Afraid?" 

Without  turning  her  head,  she  shouted  back,  “No." 

The  Vagabunda  did  a  noble  job  as  we  forced  her  through  each  oncoming 
breaker  with  steady  strokes.  Many  of  the  big  seas  washed  completely  over 
the  canoe,  filling  the  cockpit  with  water.  When  this  happened,  Ginger 


Think  Fast  or  Die 


29 


bailed  out  while  I  paddled,  then  we  would  paddle  on  together.  It  seemed 
that  we  would  never  get  through  that  surf,  even  with  the  tide  in  our  favour. 
Our  muscles  began  to  ache  as  though  jabbed  with  white-hot  irons.  Sharp 
pains  ran  up  our  backbones,  ending  with  miniature  explosions  in  our 
skulls.  The  sight  of  open  water  at  last  encouraged  us  to  put  our  final  re¬ 
serves  of  force  behind  the  paddles,  and  soon  we  were  out  in  the  open  sea. 
We  rested  before  hoisting  sail. 

I  hadn’t  realized  the  lateness  of  the  hour  until  I  got  out  my  tiny  compass 
to  take  our  bearings.  It  was  a  little  after  noon  and  we  were  still  a  long  way 
from  our  next  destination,  Cedros  Island,  which  we  had  hoped  to  make  by 
sundown.  Whipped  along  by  a  considerable  breeze,  the  V agabunda  dipped 
her  lee  rail  under,  making  good  time  tacking  a  zigzag  course  towards  the 
island.  By  three  o’clock,  however,  the  wind  had  increased  so  that  while 
we  were  still  making  five  knots,  we  were  making  so  much  leeway  that 
we  were  only  advancing  half  a  mile  an  hour  in  the  direction  of  our  destina¬ 
tion.  We  just  tacked  back  and  forth  helplessly. 

At  sundown  I  was  astonished  to  see  that  we  had  not  gotten  more  than 
three  miles  outside  the  breaker  line.  The  tide  had  turned,  and  we  were 
getting  nowhere.  With  the  coming  of  nightfall  the  wind  increased  to  almost 
gale  force.  We  reefed  the  sail,  and  making  poor  time  against  the  strong 
wind,  bucked  and  bumped  round  in  the  darkness.  Later  Ginger’s  sharp 
eyes  spied  something  ahead  of  us. 

“Look!  it's  white,’’  she  cried. 

At  first  I  could  distinguish  nothing,  then  I  saw  a  great  mass  of  white 
about  two  hundred  yards  ahead  of  us.  “Breakers!”  I  groaned.  “Breakers 
in  front  and  breakers  behind.  We  can’t  go  ahead,  we  can’t  go  back.  The 
tide’s  going  out,  too,  and  we’re  in  shoal  water.  There’s  nothing  to  do  but 
fight  it  out.” 

Breaker  after  breaker,  each  one  larger  than  its  predecessor,  crashed 
down  upon  us  as  we  dug  in  with  our  paddles  and  tried  to  ride  them  through. 
We  paddled  for  our  very  lives.  Blisters  rose  on  our  hands  and  broke,  and 
soon  the  flesh  was  raw  and  bleeding.  The  paddles  became  sticky  with  the 
mixture  of  salt  and  blood.  The  cockpit  was  full  of  water,  but  we  could 
spend  no  time  in  bailing  now.  It  took  all  our  efforts  to  keep  the  loggy 
canoe  headed  into  the  breakers.  Wet  and  cold,  our  bodies  aching  so  that 
it  seemed  they  would  break  under  the  strain,  we  fought  on  hour  after  hour. 

We  had  thought  that  we  were  completely  exhausted  with  our  initial 
effort  in  getting  out  through  the  bar  of  the  lagoon,  but  now  we  learned 
what  severe  stress  the  body  can  stand  when  life  depends  upon  it.  Past  the 
barriers  that  fatigue  normally  imposes  on  the  will  and  body,  there  is  another 
level  of  energy  and  another  stopping  point  as  well;  then  beyond  that  barrier 
lies  a  zone  of  action  in  which  the  will  alone  functions,  and  the  beaten  body 
responds  with  no  counter  suggestions  of  its  own. 

When  Ginger  began  to  falter  in  her  stroke,  I  shouted,  “One  more 


SO  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

stroke!"  We  chanted  in  unison,  "One  more  stroke,"  hour  after  hour,  all 
through  the  night. 

Perhaps  we  continued  to  paddle  long  after  the  heavy  seas  had  ceased, 
for  the  realization  came  very  slowly  to  me  that  now  there  were  only  the 
high  swells  of  the  open  ocean  about  us. 

"We’re  out!"  I  croaked.  "Let’s  rest." 

I  tried  to  lay  my  paddle  down  but  my  hand  stuck  to  it.  I  was  unable  to 
relax  my  fingers  from  their  grip.  After  a  bit,  while  Ginger  bailed  out  the 
cockpit,  I  managed  to  work  them  loose. 

Soon  we  had  the  sail  up  and  were  making  good  time  to  our  old  destina¬ 
tion,  Cedros.  We  reached  the  island  in  the  afternoon  but  were  unable  to 
find  a  place  to  land,  so  went  on  to  a  further  group  of  islands,  the  San 
Benitos.  The  first  camp  we  set  up  was  anything  but  the  neat,  efficient  job 
we  prided  ourselves  on  doing.  After  a  bite  to  eat  we  turned  in  for  twelve 
hours  of  drugged  sleep — on  our  stomachs,  since  our  backs  were  raw  from 
wear  and  tear. 

Our  hands  and  bodies  were  in  such  a  condition  that  it  was  impossible  to 
continue  until  they  had  had  a  chance  to  heal,  so  we  built  a  camp  suitable 
for  a  stay  of  several  weeks  if  necessary.  The  torture  of  setting  up  that  camp 
on  San  Benitos  is  something  that  we  are  both  going  to  remember. 

There  wasn’t  much  we  could  do  round  camp  but  think  and  plan.  Our 
hands  were  scabbed  over,  and  the  least  use  of  our  fingers  would  cause 
these  crusts  to  break  and  bleed.  Gathering  firewood  was  a  great  trial. 
And  Ginger  must  have  suffered  equally  in  cooking  our  meals. 

Huge  herds  of  sea  lions  and  sea  birds  were  the  island’s  only  inhabitants. 

After  a  week’s  rest,  thanks  to  the  perfect  condition  of  our  bodies,  we 
were  able  to  put  to  sea  once  more. 

Our  sojourn  did  more  than  rest  our  bodies.  It  gave  us  a  chance  to  sum¬ 
marize  the  advantages  and  disadvantages  of  our  adventure.  We  realized 
more  than  ever  the  necessity  for  team  work,  quick  thinking,  and  disregard 
of  self,  if  we  were  to  continue.  If  our  personal  safety  came  first  at  all  times, 
then  it  was  better  to  go  home  and  do  our  adventuring  vicariously.  On  the 
other  hand,  if  we  could  gain  some  satisfaction  from  knowing  that  the  aching 
muscles  of  today  would  become  the  efficient,  tireless  muscles  of  tomorrow, 
and  that  the  mental  disciplines  imposed  by  hunger  and  thirst  would 
eventually  free  us  from  concern  with  our  bodies  and  appetites,  we  could 
take  the  chance  that  we  knew  the  future  held. 

Our  main  objective  from  here  on  was  Magdalena  Bay — and  by  Christ¬ 
mas.  That  became  our  slogan:  "Magdalena  by  Christmas." 

We  stopped  for  a  day’s  exploration  on  San  Pablo  Point,  south  of  Cedros 
Island.  There  was  a  legend  that  in  the  ruins  of  an  old  mission  there,  the 
padres  had  hidden  a  quantity  of  gold  after  the  order  for  their  expulsion 
from  New  Spain.  I  think  they  were  given  thirty-six  hours  in  which  to  leave 


Think  Fast  or  Die  3 1 

their  missions,  so  that  they  would  have  no  time  in  which  to  incite  the 
Indians. 

I  had  kept  a  careful  record,  begun  when  I  wore  knee  pants,  of  all  the 
"bonanzas”  rumoured  to  be  lying  along  this  coast.  Truth  to  tell,  as  I  be¬ 
came  older  the  possibility  of  finding  these  hoards  seemed  remote.  Never¬ 
theless,  Ginger  and  I  always  looked  for  them  if  they  were  not  too  far  off 
our  route.  It  was  something  like  hunting  Easter  eggs. 

After  considerable  searching  we  found  the  ruin  of  the  mission,  a  crum¬ 
bling  heap  of  adobe.  I  got  out  the  map  and  found  “where  a  cross  marks  the 
spot.  The  rock  was  there  but  the  tree  was  long  since  gone.  Ginger  did 
the  specified  number  of  paces,  which  brought  us  to  the  point  where  the 
old  mission  tower  had  fallen.  Beneath  this  rubbish  was  supposed  to  be  the 
treasure.  The  sun  was  hot  and  we  both  looked  with  great  disinterest  at  the 
cementlike  adobe  that  stood  between  us  and  riches. 

"Now  that  we  know  where  it  is  we  can  come  back  some  other  time 
and  get  it,”  said  Ginger. 

I  knew  that  we  never  would,  but  I  said,  "Yes,  of  course,  we  can  come 
back  later  with  shovels.”  That  was  part  of  the  game.  Then  I  marked  on 
the  map,  "located.” 

We  were  both  in  high  spirits  as  a  light  breeze  filled  our  sails  and  bore 
us  south  towards  Magdalena — and  a  heap  of  trouble. 


Chapter  Four 


WHERE  THE  TIDES  MEET 

We  were  paddling  off  Boca  Las  Animas.  Shooting  the  heavy  surf  at 
the  bar,  we  made  a  perfect  landing  in  the  smooth  waters  of  the 
lagoon  at  the  north  entrance  leading  into  Magdalena  Bay  proper.  There 
are  hundreds  of  miles  of  these  lagoons,  uncharted  and  unexplored,  round 
the  bay. 

The  land  began  to  close  in  on  both  sides  as  we  paddled  along,  observing 
the  scenery.  The  intense  green  of  the  mangroves  lining  the  shore  con¬ 
trasted  with  the  purple  haze  of  the  desert  behind  them  and  the  silvery  blue 
waters  of  the  lagoon  in  the  foreground.  It  made  a  lovely,  serene  picture. 
How  tranquil  it  seemed! 

For  years  I  had  been  telling  Ginger,  “It's  a  wonderful  place;  you'll  love 
Magdalena  Bay."  I  had  made  a  trip  aboard  a  Navy  destroyer  years  before. 
For  weeks  we  had  been  anticipating  sailing  in  its  quiet  waters.  I  felt  pretty 
good.  Perhaps  a  trifle  too  complacent,  but  under  the  circumstances  I  felt 
we  had  a  right  to  be.  So  far  we  had  successfully  met  a  lot  of  difficult  and 
dangerous  situations  on  the  hundreds  of  miles  of  travel,  afoot  and  afloat, 
that  now  lay  behind  us.  Furthermore,  we  had  made  “Magdalena  by  Christ¬ 
mas." 

“We  won't  have  to  worry  about  fighting  rough  water,  riding  out 
storms  at  sea,  or  landing  through  heavy  surf  for  quite  a  while.  Ginger,"  I 

said.  “We're  going  to  take  it  easy  and - " 

“Heaven  knows,  I  hope  you're  right,"  she  interrupted.  “We  could  do 
with  a  little  tranquillity — for  a  change." 

She  was  tired,  poor  dear.  Well,  from  now  on,  for  a  while,  it  would  be 
different.  We  hoisted  the  sail  to  a  light  breeze  and  headed  down  the  narrow 
lagoon  toward  Magdalena  Bay,  thirty  miles  to  the  south.  We  had  some 
difficulty  in  following  the  channel  because  the  tide  was  coming  in  and 
making  the  water  muddy.  Occasionally  we'd  strike  a  mudflat.  Ginger 
would  lift  the  centerboard  and  we'd  sound  with  the  paddles  until  we  found 
deeper  water.  So  we  sailed  along,  singing  and  enjoying  ourselves,  though 
we  both  noticed  that  the  water  was  beginning  to  be  bumpy  and  to  kick  up 
little  whitecaps. 

“Dan,  what's  making  the  water  so  choppy?  It's  too  light  a  breeze." 

I  never  got  that  question  answered;  for  suddenly,  without  further  warn¬ 
ing,  the  water  round  us  went  mad.  Waves  were  running  in  every  direction, 


■ 


. 


Where  the  Tides  Meet 


35 


bumping  into  each  other,  sending  spray  high  into  the  air.  The  canoe  began 
bouncing  like  a  cork.  Scrambling  to  our  feet,  we  hastily  tried  to  get  the 
sail  down.  Ginger  stood  up  to  untie  the  halyards;  the  canoe  swerved 
crazily  and  she  was  flung  overboard,  as  though  a  giant  were  playing  crack- 
the-whip  with  the  canoe. 

I  grabbed  a  paddle  and  held  it  towards  her,  hoping  she  could  catch  hold. 
The  canoe  whirled  out  of  her  reach.  The  next  thing  to  do  was  to  get  the 
sail  down  and  paddle  towards  her.  I  knew  that  no  human  being,  no  matter 
how  expert  a  swimmer,  could  stay  afloat  in  that  furious  sea  for  long.  My 
fingers  were  all  thumbs  in  my  agitation.  I  finally  untied  the  halyards  and 
dropped  the  sail.  This  accomplished,  I  paddled  towards  Ginger  for  all  I  was 
worth.  I  could  see  her  fighting  desperately  to  keep  afloat.  For  some  reason 
I  seemed  to  lose  all  sense  of  direction.  The  scenery  round  me  was  reeling 
drunkenly.  As  I  redoubled  my  efforts  to  reach  Ginger,  it  seemed  that  I 
was  heading  towards  the  sea.  Then  I'd  turn  towards  the  desert;  but  always 
in  the  direction  of  Ginger.  What  the  devil  was  this,  anyway?  Then,  I  real¬ 
ized  what  was  happening.  We  were  being  whirled  in  a  great  maelstrom — 
Ginger  on  one  side  of  the  vortex,  and  I  on  the  other.  This  was  the  giant. 

Ginger,  in  trying  to  swim  towards  the  canoe,  and  I,  in  attempting  to 
reach  her,  were  being  carried  into  the  centre  of  the  maelstrom.  There  fol¬ 
lowed  a  sickening  shock  when  I  realized  fully  that  if  she  did  swim  into 
the  centre  of  that  seething  vortex,  she  would  be  carried  down  by  the  suc¬ 
tion.  My  heart  stood  still;  my  throat  closed. 

"Ginger!  Ginger!"  I  shouted,  "swim  to  one  side  so  that  I  can  meet 
you.  Look  out!  Whirlpool!" 

She  did  not  hear  me.  Every  faculty  was  concentrated  on  the  one  purpose 
of  reaching  the  canoe  quickly. 

Then,  as  though  the  furies  were  not  satisfied  with  this  predicament, 
there  came,  their  dorsal  fins  sharply  cleaving  the  water,  a  new  menace — 
sharks.  The  water  seemed  alive  with  them,  all  of  them  heading  towards 
Ginger.  She  looked  up,  saw  my  face,  my  increased  efforts  with  the  paddles, 
and  looked  round — one  horrified  glance.  Then  she  dug  in  with  fear-driven 
strokes.  But  she  was  heading  straight  for  the  centre  of  the  whirlpool — that 
equally  fatal  centre.  Somehow,  I  must  reach  her  before  she  hit  that  vortex. 

Closer  and  closer  we  came  to  each  other,  running  an  awful  impromptu 
race.  Ginger,  her  face  barely  out  of  the  water,  had  not  as  yet  sensed  the 
danger  of  that  sucking  centre.  All  she  knew  was  the  approaching  danger 
of  those  deadly  fins.  She  was  beating  me  to  the  centre.  I  could  see  only  her 
frightened,  determined  face. 

Suddenly,  the  only  thing  that  I  could  possibly  do  occurred  to  me.  I 
jumped  upright,  grabbed  the  mast  as  high  as  I  could,  swung  my  weight 
outwards  towards  Ginger,  and  carried  the  mast  with  me.  The  mast  and  I 
hit  the  water  at  the  same  time,  the  end  of  the  spar  within  Ginger's  reach. 


36 


Enchanted  Vagabonds 


She  lost  no  time  in  grabbing  it.  Near  exhaustion,  she  pulled  herself  on  to 
the  capsized  canoe. 

After  taking  a  few  minutes  to  get  our  breath  and  to  allow  our  emotions 
to  subside,  we  crawled  along  the  side  of  the  overturned  canoe  to  the  mast 
and  pulled  it  out  of  its  socket.  Putting  our  combined  weight  on  the  high 
side,  we  miraculously  righted  our  craft  as  it  gyrated  madly  in  the  very 
centre  of  the  vortex.  Despite  the  canoe's  buoyancy,  it  looked  as  though  we 
should  most  certainly  be  carried  down  by  the  tremendous  pull.  We  fought 
with  every  ounce  of  our  remaining  strength,  putting  all  we  had  behind 
each  paddle  stroke. 

Then  the  whirlpool  slowly  subsided.  The  water  became  quiet  except  for 
sullen  eddies,  each  going  in  a  different  direction. 

“Well!"  I  exclaimed.  “What  a  merry-go-round  that  was!" 

These  were  the  times  when  banalities  saved  us.  We  simply  didn't  dare 
show  each  other  how  frightened  we  had  been.  “Get  back  to  normal  just 
as  soon  as  possible"  had  to  be  our  rule  on  such  a  trip.  The  nervous  reaction 
to  the  ordeal  we  had  been  through  would  set  in  soon  enough. 

Ginger,  coughing  up  sea  water,  gasped,  “Look  at  the  chart  and  see  if 
there  isn't  some  explanation;  there  must  be  a  reason." 

We  examined  the  document  closely.  Finally,  in  minute  letters,  we  found 
the  legend,  “Where  the  tides  meet."  “That’s  it!"  I  said.  “The  tides  coming 
in  at  each  end  of  this  narrow  channel  meet  at  this  particular  point.  The 
currents  hit  each  other  in  such  a  way  that  they  form  a  giant  whirlpool. 
After  wearing  themselves  out,  they  continue  on  as  usual." 

“Let’s  make  camp,"  Ginger  suggested.  “After  all,  my  friend,  I’m  about 
ready  lor  that  rest  and  relaxation  you  promised  me.  A  while  back  didn't 
I  hear  you  say  something  about  there  being  nothing  to  worry  us?  Can  this 
be  the  ‘restful  place'  you’ve  talked  so  much  about?  It  seems  full  of  dynamite 
to  me,  but  correct  me  if  I'm  wrong." 

“Please  skip  it,"  I  said. 


Chapter  Five 


LOS  COYOTES 


Reaching  shore  on  the  seaward  side  of  the  lagoon,  we  lost  no  time  in 
*  setting  up  camp.  As  usual,  while  Ginger  started  to  prepare  the  meal, 

I  began  fishing.  But  for  the  first  time  on  the  whole  trip  there  were  no  fish, 
not  even  a  nibble.  I  prowled  along  the  beach  looking  for  clams,  but  the  tide 
was  in  too  far.  Apparently  Nature  had  closed  her  cupboard  doors. 

The  next  day  things  continued  to  go  wrong.  All  morning  the  current 
was  against  us.  In  the  afternoon  when  the  current  was  with  us,  the  wind 
was  against  us.  By  night  we  had  made  only  fifteen  miles. 

The  following  day,  however,  we  rounded  Man  o’ War  Cove,  where  the 
village  of  Magdalena  lies,  bleak,  barren,  wind-swept  and  desolate,  perched 
precariously  between  the  encroaching  waters  of  the  bay  and  the  overhang¬ 
ing  brown,  rocky  hills  that  pile  up  on  its  northern  side. 

As  we  pulled  into  the  rickety  little  pier,  we  could  see  people  running 
from  one  house  to  another,  followed  by  flea-bitten  dogs  who  paused  to 
bark  at  us. 

We  wondered  a  bit  at  all  this  activity  as  we  paddled  up  to  the  pier. 
Ginger  started  up  its  ladder — but  sat  down  on  deck  a  bit  abruptly  with  a 
rotten  ladder  rung  in  her  hand. 

"‘What  a  place!  What  a  reception!”  she  said  disgustedly. 

“This  place  hasn’t  changed  a  bit,”  l  said  happily.  “Good  old  Magda¬ 
lena.”  I  noticed  a  pile  of  decaying  timbers  on  the  beach  which,  on  my 
previous  visit,  had  been  a  boatshed. 

“I  think,”  said  Ginger  with  a  slight  hint  of  sarcasm  in  her  voice,  “I’d 
rather  land  on  the  beach,  if  you  don’t  mind.  That ,  at  least,  won't  crumble 
the  minute  I  step  on  it!” 

Trooping  to  the  beach  to  meet  us,  there  came  the  men  we  had  seen 
running  from  house  to  house.  But  what  a  difference!  They  were  now  ele¬ 
gantly  attired  in  white  uniforms,  with  Sam  Browne  belts  and  much  gold 
braid. 

“A  dress  reception,”  I  said,  as  the  officials  came  forward  to  examine  our 
papers.  We  had  great  difficulty  in  concealing  our  merriment  at  the  pompous 
air  of  officialdom  that  hung  over  the  proceedings.  With  great  solemnity  we 
were  given  the  freedom  of  the  port  and  invited  to  the  Port  Captain’s 
quarters. 

On  the  way  I  whispered  to  Ginger  that  I  hoped  their  houses  held  up 


38  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

better  than  their  pier.  After  glancing  at  the  porches,  she  murmured  that 
she  had  her  doubts. 

Later,  as  we  sat  on  the  dilapidated  porch  of  the  customs  house,  I  in¬ 
quired  about  water. 

‘'There  is  no  water  here,”  the  official  said.  “We  haul  it  from  Santa 
Margarita  Island,  fourteen  miles  away.” 

“How  many  people  live  here?  How  do  you  make  a  living?”  I  asked. 

“There  are  twenty-five  families,  including  the  port  officials  and  the 
garrison  of  two  privates  and  fifteen  officers,”  he  answered. 

“Have  you  no  industry;  no  commercial  fishing?” 

“No,  Senor.  We  are  officials.” 

“But  what  do  you  do  to  keep  busy?” 

He  smiled.  “Our  main  occupation,”  he  said,  “is  ' toreadoring  el  viento’  ” 
(dodging  the  wind). 

Later  we  noticed  that  when  the  men  ran  from  one  house  to  another, 
they  twisted  their  bodies  sideways  against  the  blasts  of  sand  and  wind. 

After  our  papers  were  signed,  I  mentioned  to  the  Port  Captain  that  we 
intended  going  to  Turtle  Inlet  to  camp. 

“It  would  never  do!”  he  protested,  and  his  face  grew  worried.  “It  is 
very  dangerous,  Senor.  One  of  our  men  was  attacked  by  coyotes  there 
only  last  week.  We  hardly  found  enough  of  him  to  bury.  Don't  go  there. 
We  have  had  no  rain  here  for  eight  years;  the  coyotes  are  starving;  they 
are  ravenous,  and  they  will  attack  anything  that  hints  of  food.” 

I  replied,  “We  have  had  coyotes  all  the  way  down  the  coast;  we  are 
not  afraid  of  them.  Can  we  find  a  water  hole  there?” 

“There  is  no  water,”  he  answered  in  a  deep,  mournful  tone.  It  was  plain 
that  he  was  both  puzzled  and  incredulous.  His  expression  revealed  the 
question  in  his  mind — why  should  we  want  to  go  to  such  a  God-forsaken 
place? 

These  officials  were  appointed  to  their  posts  from  Mexico  City.  Few 
of  them  ever  left  the  confines  of  the  village  to  go  wandering  in  the  barren 
back  country  during  their  term  of  office.  That  they  thought  we  were 
lunatics  was  apparent. 

We  were  determined,  however,  to  get  to  Turtle  Inlet,  and  despite  the 
protestations  of  the  Port  Captain,  we  traded  twro  fishhooks  for  enough 
water  to  fill  our  canteens,  loaded  the  boat,  and  shoved  off. 

Since  we  had  no  money  to  spend  in  Magdalena,  our  reason  for  wanting 
to  go  to  this  inlet  was  not  mysterious,  at  least  not  to  us.  It  had  the  reputa¬ 
tion  for  being  the  home  of  thousands  of  great  green  sea  turtles.  We  wanted 
a  barbecued  turtle  for  our  Christmas  dinner.  We  had,  according  to  our 
intentions,  made  Magdalena  by  Christmas.  We  were  very  pleased.  It  was 
an  occasion  for  a  double  celebration. 

Approaching  the  inlet,  we  came  upon  a  low  sand  island.  On  the  shore, 
about  thirty  feet  from  the  water,  were  two  huge  sea  turtles.  “There's 


S9 


Los  Coyotes 

Christmas  dinner/'  I  said.  "Let's  sneak  up  on  them."  Ginger's  eyes  spar¬ 
kled  as  she  nodded.  Paddling  carefully,  scarcely  daring  to  breathe  for  fear 
of  frightening  our  quarry,  we  silently  approached  the  unsuspecting  turtles. 
We  moored  the  canoe  to  a  paddle  stuck  in  the  mud  a  few  yards  off  shore. 
Slipping  quietly  overboard,  we  waded  stealthily  to  the  beach.  The  turtles, 
still  unaware  of  our  design,  dozed  placidly  in  the  sun. 

Since  turtles  found  on  land  are  captured  by  turning  them  over  on  their 
backs,  we  decided,  after  a  whispered  consultation,  that  Ginger  was  to  tackle 
the  nearest  one  on  the  right,  while  I  made  a  run  for  the  other.  In  our 
excitement  it  seemed  to  us  that  the  turtles  were  becoming  uneasy.  What 
if  they  should  make  a  dash  for  the  water?  We  delayed  no  longer,  but  rushed 
upon  our  victims  and  turned  over — empty  shells! 

"Everything  in  this  damned  bay  has  been  contradictory,"  I  fumed.  "If 
we  want  to  sail,  there's  no  wind.  If  we  want  to  paddle,  the  current's  against 
us.  The  fish  have  moved  away;  and  just  when  we  think  we're  catching 
turtles,  it  turns  out  we’re  just  collecting  turtle  shells.  What  kind  of  a  place 
is  this,  anyway?" 

Disappointed  and  disgusted,  we  turned  the  canoe  again  towards  Turtle 
Inlet.  As  we  entered  the  channel  great  swells  came  rolling  in  tor  no  ap¬ 
parent  reason.  Since  there  is  a  strong  tidal  set  in  these  lagoons,  we  found 
the  current  against  us  as  well.  We  were  at  last  forced  to  make  camp  on  a 
desolate  little  sand  beach  at  the  entrance  to  the  inlet,  where  thickets  of 
thorny  cacti  grew  almost  to  the  water’s  edge.  Grotesque  in  the  gathering 
dusk,  their  arms  seemed  to  reach  out  for  us.  We  were  tired,  disappointed 
and  a  little  lonely.  Our  minds  flashed  back  to  home.  What  was  happening 
there?  We  could  see  the  lights,  the  hurrying  crowds,  and,  for  a  fleeting 
moment,  feel  the  flush  of  expectancy  that  lies  over  the  whole  world  at 
Christmas  time.  We  decided  it  was  best  not  to  think  about  it. 

Next  day,  with  the  tide,  we  paddled  to  the  end  of  the  inlet,  about  five 
miles,  where  we  found  a  comfortable  camp  site  on  the  edge  of  the  desert. 
The  shore  was  lined  with  coyote  trails  and  some  of  the  tracks  were  huge. 
After  setting  up  camp  I  proceeded  to  scout  round  for  food.  Our  bad  luck 
of  the  previous  day  was  still  hounding  us.  No  turtles;  the  fish  wouldn't 
bite;  but  fortune  finally  favoured  us  with  a  few  clams. 

All  that  night  we  were  annoyed  by  the  prowling  of  coyotes.  This  was 
unusual,  for  they  ordinarily  kept  away,  yapping  their  defiance  from  a  safe 
distance. 

The  third  day  was  a  repetition  of  the  other  two.  No  turtles;  no  fish;  no 
rabbits — nothing.  While  we  were  hunting,  starved-looking  coyotes  ran 
ahead  of  us  about  a  hundred  yards,  yipping  and  barking.  I  doubted  that  we 
could  have  gotten  to  the  game  first  if  we  had  found  any. 

So  Christmas  dinner  was  clams.  We  had  them  all  ways:  clam  chowder; 
steamed  clams;  fried  clams;  and  for  dessert,  clams  broiled  crisp  over  live 
coals.  We  made  a  little  Christmas  tree  from  a  desert  shrub,  and  that  evening 


40  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

as  we  sat  by  the  fire  we  presented  our  gifts.  Ginger  had  made  me  a  hand¬ 
kerchief;  and  I  presented  her  with  a  spoon  I  had  carved  from  mesquite 
wood.  Sometime  after  retiring  I  was  awakened  by  coyotes  sniffing  round 
the  grub  box.  I  took  a  couple  of  pot  shots  at  them  and  missed — but  I  did 
hit  the  grub  box. 

The  morning  after  Christmas  the  bay  was  teeming  with  food.  I  came 
back  to  camp  with  the  canoe  loaded  to  the  gunwales  with  a  fine  turtle  (I 
had  seen  three),  a  nice  mess  of  fish,  and  some  oysters  which  I  had  found 
on  the  far  side  of  the  inlet  growing  on  mangrove  trees!  They  attach  them¬ 
selves  to  the  tangled  roots  which  protrude  above  the  water  at  low  tide. 

Ginger  shook  her  head.  “This  certainly  is  the  Bay  of  Contradictions/’ 
she  remarked  as  she  surveyed  my  loot.  “For  our  first  Christmas  dinner 
away  from  home,  almost  nothing;  the  day  after,  we  dine  sumptuously  on 
turtle  soup  and —  Say!  Where  did  you  get  those  oysters?”  she  demanded 
incredulously  as  she  saw  them  for  the  first  time. 

“Oh,  I  picked  them  off  trees;  they  grow  on  trees  here,  you  know,”  I 
answered  nonchalantly.  She  eyed  me  with  a  you-can’t-fool-me  look.  “That’s 
right,”  I  added.  “This  is  the  Bay  of  Contradictions — you  named  it  yourself. 
I  suppose  you  aren’t  hungry  today,  either;  and  that’s  another  contradic¬ 
tion.” 

“I  could  eat,”  she  admitted,  “but  what  are  we  going  to  do  with  all  that 
food?” 

“Eat  all  our  shrivelled  stomachs  can  hold  now;  dry  what  we’ll  need  later; 
and  use  the  balance  for  coyote  bait,  because  I’m  going  to  start  on  those 
devils.” 

That  night  I  laid  my  coyote  trap  within  clear  view  of  the  tent.  I  piled 
turtle  meat  in  an  open  spot  on  the  beach;  tipped  the  equipment  box 
at  an  angle  in  front  of  the  tent’s  entrance,  so  that  by  placing  my  gun  barrel 
upon  it  the  bullet  would  pass  about  a  foot  off  the  ground,  directly  over 
the  turtle  meat,  and  I  could  shoot  without  using  my  gun  sights.  Before 
we  turned  in  I  unzipped  the  tent  flap  and  pinned  it  back. 

“Dan,”  Ginger  said,  while  wriggling  down  into  the  sleeping  bag,  “I 
wish  you  wouldn’t  fool  with  those  coyotes.  I’ve  heard  their  bites  are  poison¬ 
ous;  that  they  will  cause  infection — if  not  rabies.  Please  don’t  do  it!” 

I  laughed.  “And  when  does  a  coyote  get  close  enough  to  a  man  to  bite 
him?  You  know  they're  cowards.” 

“Well,  how  about  that  man  from  Magdalena?  The  coyotes  evidently 
weren’t  afraid  of  him.” 

“I  think  that  story  is  just  hot  air.  Forget  it  now  and  go  to  sleep.  I’m 
going  to  stand  watch  for  a  while  and  see  if  I  can’t  pick  off  a  few  of  these 
nuisances.” 

I  lay  awake  a  long  time,  listening.  No  coyotes  came,  and  finally  I  dropped 
off  to  sleep.  Hours  later,  something  struck  me  in  the  face.  “Ginger’s  having 
a  nightmare,”  I  thought,  and  reached  over  to  put  her  flailing  arms  inside 


41 


Los  Coyotes 

the  sleeping  bag.  She  was  lying  quietly.  Wondering  what  could  have  hit 
me,  I  opened  my  eyes  and  stared  into  the  darkness  of  the  tent.  My  scalp 
began  to  tingle.  I  was  looking  point-blank  into  the  snarling  face  of  a  huge 
coyote  directly  above  my  head. 

I  pulled  my  hand  out  of  the  sleeping  bag  to  reach  for  my  gun.  At  the 
movement  the  beast  snapped  at  my  hand,  his  teeth  biting  deep  into  my 
flesh.  I  grabbed  his  neck  with  both  hands,  trying  to  hold  him  away  from 
my  face.  The  battle  was  on!  Ginger  awoke,  startled  from  her  sleep,  she 
said  later,  by  his  tail  brushing  across  her  face.  There  was  no  sound  except 
the  snarling  of  the  coyote.  As  I  tried  to  choke  him,  he  kept  tearing  at  my 
hands,  his  hindquarters  bouncing  all  over  the  tiny  pup  tent. 

Ginger  finally  crawled  near  enough  to  grab  those  powerful  hind  legs. 
There  was  no  chance  to  get  out  of  the  sleeping  bag,  no  chance  to  get  the 
gun — I  dared  not  release  him  long  enough.  He  made  repeated  lunges  for 
my  face,  which  I  had  to  protect  from  those  dripping  fangs  at  heavy  cost  to 
my  hands,  for  he  tore  them  to  ribbons.  With  Ginger  grimly  holding  on 
to  his  hindquarters,  I  managed  to  turn  over  on  my  stomach,  which  some¬ 
what  relieved  the  strain  on  my  arms.  This  couldn’t  last  much  longer!  But 
we  would  simply  have  to  hang  on  somehow  until  the  infuriated  animal 
strangled  to  death.  My  hands  by  this  time  were  in  agony.  Each  time  he 
lashed  at  me,  I  could  feel  his  teeth  sink  deep  into  the  flesh  of  my  arms  and 
wrists.  He  snarled  and  cried  with  pain  and  anger.  Evidently  I  was  not 
shutting  off  his  wind  as  I  had  hoped. 

“For  the  love  of  Mike,  Ginger,”  I  cried,  “get  something  to  tie  round 
this  devil’s  neck!” 

Wedging  her  shoulders  down  over  his  still  active  legs,  and  hanging  on 
to  them  with  one  hand,  she  readied  for  her  belt.  Somehow  we  managed  to 
take  a  turn  round  the  coyote’s  neck  with  the  belt,  cinching  up  on  it.  His 
struggles  began  to  lessen,  and  I  wriggled  out  of  the  sleeping  bag  far  enough 
to  throw  him  on  his  side.  When  I  was  on  top  instead  of  beneath  him,  Ginger 
handed  me  the  Luger,  and  I  pushed  the  beast  far  enough  out  of  the  tent 
to  shoot  him. 

We  crawled  from  the  tent  into  the  cold  moonlight,  looked  at  the  dead 
coyote  at  our  feet  and  at  each  other.  Ginger’s  face  was  badly  scratched  and 
my  hands  were  dripping  blood. 

“Something  certainly  caught  up  with  us  that  time,”  sighed  Ginger  as 
she  surveyed  our  wounds.  “Well,  we  asked  for  it.”  She  said  nothing  else, 
and  I,  too,  remained  silent  as  we  both  thought  of  the  stories  we  had  heard 
in  Magdalena  about  what  happened  to  men  who  were  bitten  by  coyotes. 

I  finally  broke  the  silence  by  saying,  “I  wonder  if  he  had  rabies?  That 
demon  must  have  had  something  to  make  him  enter  a  human  habitation. 
What  do  you  think?” 

She  didn't  answer  my  question,  saying  instead,  “Let's  get  a  fire  going 
and  look  at  your  hands.  It  must  be  nearly  dawn.” 


42  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

Since  I  was  unable  to  use  my  hands,  Ginger  built  the  fire  and  surveyed 
the  damage.  The  backs  of  both  of  my  wrists  and  hands  were  tom  to  shreds, 
the  flesh  hanging  from  the  edges  of  the  cuts.  We  realized  that  I  was  staring 
a  pretty  messy  death  straight  in  the  face.  We  dragged  the  dead  animal  over 
to  the  fire  where  I  peeled  back  his  lip.  His  teeth  were  blackened  and  dis¬ 
colored,  flecked  with  foam  and  bits  of  decayed  food. 

“Well,”  I  said,  as  calmly  as  I  could,  “he  doesn’t  seem  to  have  enjoyed 
the  best  of  health.” 

Suddenly  Ginger  grabbed  her  largest  cooking  pot  and,  on  her  way  to  the 
beach,  shouted,  “Get  the  iodine  and  the  permanganate  of  potash  crystals. 
I  know  something  that  will  either  cure  or  kill  you.” 

I  got  the  things  she  asked  for  out  of  the  first-aid  kit,  assuming  that  she 
meant  to  soak  my  hands  in  the  solution.  But  I  was  soon  to  leam  that  her 
intentions  were  far,  far  worse  than  that;  for  she  heaped  more  wood  on  the 
fire,  set  the  pot  of  water  over  the  flames,  and  poured  in  the  iodine  and  the 
permanganate.  When  the  water  became  lukewarm  she  announced  her  fiend¬ 
ish  purpose.  “I’m  going  to  heat  that  pot  of  water.  You’re  going  to  put 
your  hands  in  that  water  and  keep  them  there  just  as  long  as  possible. 
The  disinfectants  will  have  a  better  chance  to  penetrate;  the  heat  will  draw 
out  the  poison.”  Then  as  though  giving  the  signal  for  an  execution  she 
snapped,  “Put  them  in!” 

Resigned  to  my  fate  but  hoping  to  talk  her  into  less  Draconian  measures, 
I  pleaded,  “I  know  that  drastic  situations  require  equally  drastic  measures 
to  combat  them,  but  don’t  you  think  this  is  just  a  little  too  severe?” 

Ginger  was  adamant.  “In  go  your  hands,”  she  commanded.  In  they 
went — and  right  out  again.  What  that  iodine  did  to  my  poor  hands!  The 
pain  was  almost  unbearable,  but  I  decided  I’d  let  them  cook  until  they 
dropped  off  rather  than  die  of  rabies.  Gradually  the  temperature  of  the 
water  increased  until  steam  rose  in  my  face.  I  grew  faint  with  pain.  The 
fire  burnt  my  arms  and  ankles  while  the  water  cooked  my  hands.  Eventu¬ 
ally  Ginger  was  satisfied.  “That’s  enough.  I  don't  want  you  burnt  as 
well  as  bitten.” 

When  I  took  my  mutilated  hands  from  the  almost  boiling  pot,  they 
looked  completely  boiled,  but  the  flesh  was  clean.  With  a  small  surgeon’s 
scalpel  we  cut  away  the  shreds  of  flesh,  made  a  swab  from  a  small  stick  and 
a  piece  of  cotton  and  daubed  the  wounds  with  disinfectant.  As  the  east 
greyed  Ginger  made  a  pot  of  coffee.  We  were  far  too  upset  to  concern 
ourselves  with  eating.  Both  of  us  were  shaking  as  though  with  ague.  We 
discussed  our  situation. 

“We're  going  to  need  water,  firewood,  food  and  bandages — or  some 
way  to  wash  and  sterilize  the  bandages  we  have,”  I  said.  “I  think  Santa 
Margarita  Island  is  our  best  bet.” 

“Yes,  since  there  are  natives  there  to  aid  us,”  Ginger  agreed.  “We’d 
better  sail  over  right  now.” 


43 


Los  Coyotes 

We  loaded  the  canoe  and  started  off  towards  Santa  Margarita  Island 
and  the  only  fresh  water  in  the  vicinity.  This  time  Ginger  played  skipper, 
and  she  had  no  small  task.  The  wind  was  against  us,  the  tide  was  against 
us,  and  Ginger  made  poor  time  with  the  paddle.  Sunset  found  us  only  as 
far  as  the  entrance  to  the  inlet.  We  camped  for  the  night.  Next  morning, 
however,  a  fair  breeze  sprang  up  which  carried  us  half-way  across  the  bay. 
Then  it  suddenly  died  and  left  us  at  the  mercy  of  the  swift  currents  again. 
Great  swells  began  to  pile  up  and  small  seas  to  break  round  us.  We  were 
on  a  shoal  spot,  and  Ginger  had  a  tough  time  handling  the  canoe  alone  in 
those  breakers.  Each  time  we  went  over  a  wave,  it  dumped  us  down  on  the 
mud  of  the  shoal  with  a  resounding  thud,  almost  breaking  the  canoe  apart. 
Then,  as  quickly  as  it  had  died,  the  wind  came  up  again  and  Ginger  hoisted 
sail.  The  nearer  we  came  to  the  island,  the  harder  the  wind  blew.  As  we 
rounded  the  little  sand  spit  that  forms  the  harbour,  a  sudden  gust  almost 
capsized  us. 

As  we  pulled  into  the  little  pier,  natives  came  to  help  us  unload  and  to 
beach  the  canoe  on  high  ground.  The  leader  introduced  himself  as  Jose, 
and  gave  us  the  use  of  a  vacant  cabin.  He  made  polite  inquiries  about  my 
bandaged  hands  and  nodded  his  head  in  understanding  at  my  reply,  “They 
are  sore."  The  natives  helped  Ginger  carry  our  gear  up  to  the  little  cabin. 
Jose  invited  us  to  have  supper  at  his  house.  Members  of  his  family  were 
sympathetic  when  they  saw  my  bandaged  hands.  But  they  asked  no  ques¬ 
tions  and  I  volunteered  no  information.  The  evening  passed  pleasantly. 

Taking  leave  of  our  hosts,  we  went  to  the  cabin  assigned  to  us.  We 
soon  found  out  why  it  was  unoccupied.  Thousands  of  fleas  and  bedbugs 
had  claimed  it  for  their  own.  Well,  they  could  have  it.  We  set  up  our  tent 
inside  the  cabin,  remembering  that  we  had  killed  one  hundred  and  sixty- 
eight  (we  counted  them)  fleas  we  had  found  in  our  sleeping  bag  after 
similar  hospitality  at  Santo  Tomas. 

Early  next  morning  Jose  came  round  to  offer  us  a  thirty-gallon  oil  drum 
which  had  been  converted  into  a  sort  of  cookstove.  He  also  brought  wood. 
While  he  was  there  I  began  to  dress  my  hands.  Shocked  at  the  sight  of  the 
torn  flesh,  he  exclaimed,  “Dios!  Que  passon!?” 

“Coyote  bit  me  a  couple  nights  ago  over  on  the  mainland,”  I  answered, 
trying  to  minimize  the  accident. 

“ Los  coyotes!”  he  breathed  in  horror,  backing  towards  the  door,  fear  and 
dread  plainly  evident  in  every  line  of  his  face. 

He  left,  but  soon  returned  bringing  his  family,  who  in  turn  brought  small 
gifts  of  food.  During  their  short  visit  they  asked  several  times,  anxiously, 
if  we  were  their  good  friends.  We  assured  Jose  and  his  family  that  we  were 
most  certainly  their  good  friends;  that  we  more  than  appreciated  all  they 
were  doing  for  us. 

Later  that  day  I  saw  Jos4  going  from  hut  to  hut.  Plainly  he  was  worried 
about  something.  I  wondered  what  it  was. 


44  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

Then,  one  by  one,  the  villagers  came  to  see  us,  each  one  bringing  a 
small  gift  of  dried  fish  and  turtle  meat,  small  quantities  of  coffee  or  fire¬ 
wood  (which  is  at  a  premium  on  the  island).  One  old  woman  brought  a 
piece  of  candle  to  light  our  hut.  Each  and  every  one  of  them,  like  Jose, 
asked  anxiously  if  we  were  “buen  amigos ,”  and  to  be  assured  over  and  over 
that  we  were  indeed  buen  amigos.  We  were  both  puzzled  and  amused.  These 
people  differed  little  from  the  other  natives  we  had  met  along  this  stretch 
of  coast,  most  of  whom  had  been  kind  and  hospitable  to  us;  but  this  was 
something  else  again.  There  was  a  very  definite  point  to  this  reiterated, 
anxious  query,  “Are  you  our  friends?” 

We  went  for  a  stroll  among  the  huts.  Everywhere  we  were  greeted  with 
an  effusive  show  of  friendship  and  the  persistent  inquiries  regarding  the 
warmth  of  our  friendship  for  the  villagers.  Since  we  could  think  of  nothing 
we  had  done  to  deserve  this  lush  display  of  friendship,  we  were  more  puz¬ 
zled  than  ever. 

The  next  afternoon,  while  Ginger  was  visiting  Jose's  family,  trying  to 
improve  her  Spanish,  and  I  was  strolling  along  the  beach,  Jose  approached 
me.  “Senor,”  he  said,  “I  must  ask  you  a  question.  It  is — how  shall  I  say 
it — a  very  personal  question.” 

“Why  not;  are  we  not  buen  amigosV '  I  questioned  in  reply. 

“This  is  difficult  to  explain  and  I  am  afraid  you  will  take  offense,”  Jos4 
countered. 

“Nothing  you  could  say  would  offend  me,  Jose.  Need  I  remind  you 
again  that  we  are  friends?” 

“Senor,  may  I  walk  along  the  beach  with  you?” 

Once  out  of  hearing  of  the  village,  Jose  turned  to  me  with  a  pathetic 
expression  and  said,  “Are  you  very  sure  that  we  are  friends?  Are  you  sure 
that  nothing  I  could  say  would  make  you  angry  with  me?” 

It  seemed  to  me  that  since  that  question  had  been  asked  of  me  a  million 
times,  by  now  my  answers  should  have  carried  some  conviction.  I  was 
losing  both  my  patience  and  my  temper;  and  if  it  were  not  so  obvious  that 
something  of  great  importance  ( to  him)  was  about  to  occur,  I  should  have 
permitted  my  feelings  a  little  leeway.  But  I  held  my  tongue. 

Finally,  he  looked  up  with  pleading,  eloquent  eyes  and  said,  “Senor,  El 
Coyote  has  bitten  you.  When  the  dark  of  the  moon  come,  you  will  go  mad. 
Like  El  Coyote ,  you  will  go  crazy  and  bite  all  your  enemies;  maybe  you  will 
even  bite  your  wife!” 

“Yes,”  I  admitted,  “I  know  that  coyote  bites  are  serious;  that  is  why 
we  came  to  you  for  help.  What  makes  you  think  that  I  will  bite  the  Senora, 
Jose?” 

“I  do  not  know,  Senor,  why  it  is  so,  but  when  a  man  is  bitten  by  El 
Coyote  he  bites  his  enemy,  and  sometimes  bites  his  wife.  Perhaps” — and 
Jose's  face  brightened — “he  does  not  know  that  she  is  not  his  enemy.” 


Los  Coyotes  45 

“There’s  a  lot  in  what  you  say,  Jos6,”  I  replied.  “Some  men  have  great 
difficulty  in  making  up  their  minds.” 

“We  will  do  anything  we  can  for  you,”  he  said,  “but  we  do  not  want 
you  to  go  mad  here  and  bite  your  enemies.” 

“But,  Jose,  I  have  no  enemies  here;  no  one  to  bite  except  the  Sehora.” 

“There  is  another  thing,”  he  muttered,  “but  if  I  ask  you,  you  will  surely 
be  angry.  Please,  Senor,  do  not  be  angry  if  I  ask  this  of  you,  will  you?” 

“No,  a  thousand  times  no!”  I  promised.  “Go  ahead.” 

“I  am  afraid,”  he  confessed.  “Senor,  when  the  dark  of  the  moon  comes, 
may  we  tie  your  hands  and  feet?  Sometimes  people  as  sick  as  you  are  going 
to  be — even  bite  their  friends!” 

“That’s  a  good  idea,  Jose,”  I  said.  “If  you  want  to  do  that,  there  won’t 
be  any  hard  feelings.” 

“Maybe  if  /  tie  you,  you’ll  be  angry.”  Then  his  eyes  lighted.  “Senor,  I 
have  the  great  idea!  We  will  let  your  wife  tie  you!” 

“That’s  not  such  a  good  idea,  Jose,”  I  demurred.  “I  might  bite  the 
Sehora  first,  and  then  she’d  be  mad  too.” 

However,  Jose  seemed  greatly  relieved  that  I  was  willing  to  be  tied  and 
carried  the  good  news  back  to  the  village. 

The  next  day  the  people  again  filled  our  hut  with  food.  We  protested, 
telling  them  it  was  not  necessary  to  deprive  themselves  of  much  needed 
food  to  make  us  presents.  They  insisted  that  they  did  it  “from  the  heart.” 
With  this,  we  ceased  protesting.  Further  refusals  might  alarm  them,  and 
that  was  one  thing  that  we  were  most  anxious  to  avoid. 

On  the  following  day — the  day  before  the  dark  of  the  moon — the  village 
was  strangely  silent.  No  children  played  in  front  of  the  huts.  One  old  man 
began  to  oil  an  antiquated  shotgun.  Other  men  appeared  wearing  great 
knives  in  their  belts.  As  the  day  wore  on  tension  increased,  and  we  began 
to  feel  uneasy,  too.  Conversation  with  the  people  who  came  to  visit  us 
became  forced  and  strained.  Natives,  we  knew,  were  kind  and  charming 
people  so  long  as  they  had  mastery  over  their  fears,  but,  like  panic-stricken 
mobs  at  home,  once  those  fears  took  possession  of  them  they  got  entirely 
out  of  hand.  Night  approached.  Jose  appeared.  His  eyes  were  sad,  but  his 
manner  was  determined.  He  fingered  a  rope. 

“I  am  afraid — I  am  afraid  to  do  this,”  he  said.  “But,  Senor,  I  must — 
I  must  do  it.”  His  voice  rose. 

I  soothed  him.  “If  you  think  it  will  quiet  the  people,  we  will  take  our 
canoe  and  spend  the  night  on  Crescente  Island.  Surely  then  your  people 
will  be  safe.” 

He  showed  his  yellow  teeth  in  a  broad  grin  and  said  in  a  relieved  voice, 
“That  would  be  wonderful,  Senor!” 

But  during  the  afternoon  a  strong  wind  had  come  up,  and  by  now  was 
blowing  a  gale  too  strong  for  the  Vagabunda  to  weather  with  Ginger  as 
the  sole  crew.  When  I  told  Jose  our  predicament  he  was  silent  for  a  long 


4 6  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

time.  Then  he  said,  “I  will  take  you  over  in  my  sailboat.  We  will  leave 
you  there.  I  will  get  Lazaro  and  Pedro  to  help  me  handle  the  boat." 

Lazaro  was  a  big,  husky  marinero  (sailor),  with  a  deep  machete  scar 
across  one  cheek.  He  looked  very  tough.  Pedro,  Jos6’s  son,  was  another 
big,  husky  Indian,  who  liked  to  be  called  "boss." 

Josh’s  wife,  Rosa,  promised  to  look  after  Ginger  while  I  was  in  exile. 
Solemnly  we  loaded  the  thirty-foot  boat  with  our  sleeping  bag,  and  some 
food  cooked  by  the  native  women.  As  the  sun  sank  the  wind  filled  the 
patched  sails  and  we  were  off.  The  little  village  looked  almost  beautiful 
in  the  glow  of  the  sun’s  last  rays.  Lazaro  took  the  tiller.  Jos£  stood  far  up 
in  the  bow,  his  rusty  shotgun  by  his  side;  Pedro,  fingering  his  machete, 
lounged  on  the  underdeck. 

As  I  stood  in  the  tiny  cockpit,  I  said  to  myself,  "You’re  in  a  bad  spot 
now,  Dan  Lamb."  And  I  kept  wondering  if  there  could  be  any  possible 
truth  in  the  natives’  stories.  I  had  found,  to  my  sorrow,  that  there  fre¬ 
quently  was.  Perhaps  I’d  soon  be  having  a  fine  time  running  around  Cres- 
cente  Island  all  by  myself,  baying  at  the  moon — when  there  was  a  moon 
to  bay  at.  Maybe  I  could  find  a  coyote  to  bite.  I  kept  thinking,  "I'll  bet 
this  bunch  of  monkeys  will  be  glad  to  be  rid  of  me."  I  tried  to  bolster  up 
my  flagging  spirits  by  thinking  about  the  ridiculous  nature  of  the  situa¬ 
tion,  because  I  didn’t  feel  funny.  Ginger  was  constantly  on  my  mind.  What 
was  to  become  of  her,  if —  But  I  didn’t  dare  think  of  that. 

The  old  bay  fooled  us  again.  Half-way  across,  the  wind  died  completely. 
We  drifted  at  the  mercy  of  the  strong  currents  which  began  to  sweep  down 
into  the  great  expanse  of  water  forming  the  northern  portion  of  Magdalena 
Bay.  Lazaro  scowled  at  the  sky.  Pedro  grew  fidgety  and  nervous.  Jos6,  on 
the  bow,  wrinkled  his  face  in  deep  concern.  Though  I  could  see  that  they 
were  getting  in  an  ugly  mood,  I  could  hardly  keep  from  chuckling.  It  was 
their  turn  now.  They  were  willing  enough  to  dump  me  on  a  desert  island 
and  go  home.  Now  the  three  of  them  were  marooned  with  me,  and  me  a 
potential  madman!  They  would  have  been  far  better  off  in  the  village. 
"This  is  going  to  be  funny  before  the  night  is  over,"  I  said  to  myself. 

About  seven  o’clock  it  grew  chillier;  I  shivered  and  gave  way  to  a 
robust  sneeze.  The  sound  electrified  them.  Pedro,  machete  in  his  hand, 
jumped  to  his  feet;  Jos6  grabbed  his  gun  and  raised  it,  ready  for  action. 

"What’s  the  matter,  Jos£?"  I  asked.  "Something  wrong?" 

"No,"  he  grunted,  setting  his  shotgun  back  against  the  mast. 

Lazaro  still  held  his  place  at  the  tiller,  although  we  were  only  moving 
with  the  current.  We  waited,  all  of  us  in  tense,  moody  silence.  The  boat 
rolled  easily  to  the  swells,  and  the  slap-slap  of  the  water  against  her  sides 
was  the  only  sound.  But  the  situation  didn’t  seem  so  funny  to  me  now  as 
it  had  only  a  moment  before.  "Suppose  the  joke  is  on  me?  These  men  are 
jittery  and  nervous.  They  really  believe  that  I  am  about  to  go  mad.  Why 
not  shoot,  and  be  rid  of  me?  From  their  point  of  view,  such  a  course  is  both 


47 


Los  Coyotes 

logical  and  justified.  They  can  say  what  they  like  tomorrow,  and  who  can 
contradict  them?"  I  shivered  again.  The  silence  was  becoming  oppressive 
and  dangerous;  I  decided  it  was  time  to  talk. 

"How  about  a  bite  to  eat,  Jose?"  I  asked. 

The  food  was  in  the  tiny  cockpit  where  I  was  standing.  I  called  to 
Lazaro  to  come  and  get  it  since  my  hands  were  still  too  sore  for  me  to 
play  mess  boy  to  the  others.  He  squirmed  uneasily  and  eyed  Pedro,  who 
still  played  with  that  machete  of  his  as  if  he  were  trying  to  make  up  his 
mind  as  to  what  he  ought  to  do  with  it.  Neither  man  moved.  "Come  on, 
my  good  friends,"  I  said.  "I  cannot  go  mad,  as  you  know,  until  midnight; 
and  it  is  still  three  hours  before  that  time." 

Then  Lazaro  inched  himself  forward  and  dropped  his  long  legs  over  the 
cockpit  edge,  feeling  with  his  feet  for  the  bundle  of  tortillas,  his  eyes  never 
leaving  my  face.  His  feet  found  the  bundle.  As  a  cormorant  dives  for  fish, 
he  swooped  down  upon  it  and  bounded  back  on  deck,  like  a  released  steel 
spring.  Rolling  a  piece  of  fish  in  a  tortilla  for  each  of  us,  he  passed  them 
around  with  nervous  care.  We  munched  the  food  in  silence.  There  was  a 
touch  of  hysteria  in  the  air  and  it  was  beginning  to  affect  me.  "What  if  I 
should  start — but  this  was  nonsense!"  Then  I  had  an  idea. 

"Jose,  my  friend,  are  you  afraid?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,  my  friend,"  he  admitted,  "I  think  I  am  afraid." 

"Have  you  a  hatch  for  this  cockpit?"  He  nodded  affirmatively.  "Then 
you  can  put  the  hatch  on  and  hold  me  prisoner  until  morning  when  the 
danger  will  have  passed." 

As  he  grabbed  for  the  hatch,  he  said,  "Oh,  my  friend,  this  is  a  wonderful 
idea!" 

I  ducked  my  head  just  in  time  as  the  hatch  slipped  into  place.  I  could 
hear  them  battening  it  down,  and  then  came  sounds  as  though  they  were 
all  trying  to  sit  on  top  of  it.  I  spread  out  the  sleeping  bag  and  promptly 
went  to  sleep. 

The  next  morning  I  was  awakened  by  the  careening  of  the  boat  as  a 
brisk  wind  was  taking  us  back  to  Santa  Margarita.  In  response  to  my 
pounding,  Jose  lifted  off'  the  hatch.  I  grinned  up  at  the  weary,  bleary-eyed 
features  of  my  hosts;  and  pointing  to  the  bag  of  tortillas,  suggested  that 
we  eat.  They  were  shivering  with  cold,  hunger,  and  the  weariness  of  their 
all-night  vigil. 

"My  friend,  do  you  still  feel  all  right?"  Jose  asked  anxiously. 

"I  have  not  gone  mad  yet,  as  you  can  see." 

"Then  you  cannot  go  mad  until  tonight  at  midnight,"  he  said  in  a  re¬ 
lieved  voice. 

"Good  heavens!"  I  thought.  "How  long  will  this  continue?  I  wonder  just 
how  long  the  'dark  of  the  moon'  lasts  in  these  parts?"  But  I  decided  to  ask 
no  questions. 

The  entire  village  met  us  on  our  return,  with  gifts  as  usual. 


48  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

That  night  Jos4  appeared,  bringing  his  coil  of  rope.  He  tied  my  hands 
and  feet,  most  careful  not  to  hurt  my  injured  hands.  After  he  had  left, 
Ginger  untied  the  ropes  and  we  went  to  sleep,  retying  them  in  the  morn¬ 
ing  before  Jose's  arrival,  so  that  it  seemed  to  him  that  I  was  as  he  had  left 
me  the  night  before.  This  comedy  went  on  for  several  nights;  and  then 
one  morning  Jose  announced  with  beaming  face,  "Senor,  I  think  that  you 
will  no  longer  want  to  bite  your  enemies  now.  Perhaps" — he  seemed  doubt¬ 
ful — "you  will  still  want  to  bite  the  Senora;  who  knows?" 

After  breakfast,  we  noticed  unusual  animation  among  the  villagers. 
Children  played  as  usual.  Women  ran  back  and  forth  from  hut  to  hut. 
Lazaro  came  to  offer  his  congratulations. 

"What's  going  on?"  I  asked. 

"Senor,  we  are  going  to  have  a  fiesta  now  that  you  are  well!" 

"It's  going  to  be  a  three-way  celebration,  Lazaro,"  I  said.  "You  are 
going  to  celebrate  because  I  didn’t  bite  you;  the  Senora  will  make  fiesta 
because  I  didn’t  bite  her;  and  I  will  make  fiesta  because  my  hands  are 
healing  nicely — and  because  I  didn't  die!" 


Chapter  Six 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  GUARD  PLAYS  POKER 

We  stayed  several  weeks  longer  to  give  my  hands  a  chance  to  heal. 

During  the  period  of  waiting,  we  tried  to  show  the  natives  how  to  do 
little  things  that  might  be  of  use  to  them.  We  also  improved  our  Spanish. 
In  the  abandoned  cannery  I  found  tools  and  scrap  iron  with  which  I  taught 
the  natives  how  to  make  fishhooks  and  other  small  gear.  The  natives  here 
are  not  mechanical,  but  once  shown  how,  they  can  copy  an  article  fairly 
well.  Ginger  showed  the  women  how  to  make  some  of  the  foods  we  had 
evolved  from  the  produce  of  the  country,  that  they  might  have  more  vari¬ 
ety  with  the  same  material. 

After  my  hands  had  healed  sufficiently  to  be  of  some  use,  we  made  our 
planned  cruise  round  Magdalena  Bay,  with  the  same  luck  which  had  pur¬ 
sued  us  since  we  had  first  entered  it.  On  our  return  to  Santa  Margarita, 
the  natives  welcomed  us  like  long-lost  brothers  and  we  moved  back  into 
our  old  flea-ridden  hut.  Since  being  bitten  by  the  coyote  I  had  been  unable 
to  keep  my  log  or  diaries.  I  now  built  a  little  table  and  started  to  work  on 
the  accounts  of  the  last  weeks. 

We  were  sitting  in  our  hut  writing  one  day  when  a  troop  of  natives, 
accompanied  by  a  celador  of  the  aduana  (minor  customs  official)  came 
knocking  on  our  door. 

"Senor  and  Senora  Lamb,  these  are  my  orders:  you  are  to  accompany 
me  back  to  Magdalena,"  he  said.  Questioning  brought  no  further  enlight¬ 
enment;  he  "did  not  know." 

"Dan,  perhaps  a  telegram — the  folks.  We'd  better  leave  at  once," 
Ginger  said. 

Upon  our  arrival  at  Magdalena  we  were  greeted  by  the  usual  officials 
dressed  in  their  whites  and  gold  braid.  But  they  were  not  cordial — decid¬ 
edly  not.  Nevertheless,  we  were  ushered  into  the  office  of  a  scowling  Port 
Captain  with  considerable  ceremony. 

All  pretence  of  courtesy  ended  at  the  door.  "Senor,"  he  said  abruptly, 
"I  am  ordering  the  arrest  of  yourself  and  the  Senora  for  violating  the 
hospitality  of  Mexico — you  are  spies!" 

The  announcement  so  dumbfounded  us  that  we  giggled.  We  sobered, 
however,  as  two  guards  ranged  themselves  on  each  side  of  us,  and  we 
noticed  the  .45  automatics  that  swung  from  their  belts.  Another  order  sent 
men  to  the  Vagabunda ,  where  they  searched  every  parcel  and  every  cranny. 


50  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

They  returned  and  presented  the  Captain  with  our  log  book  and  diaries 
which,  knowing  no  English,  they  could  not  read.  This  was  fortunate,  for 
we  had  made  several  references  to  the  port  and  its  officials  that  would  not 
be  regarded  as  complimentary. 

Then  the  questions  began.  He  wanted  to  know  “what  kind  of  work" 
we  were  doing. 

“We,  as  you  know,  Senor  Capitan ,  are  travellers  and  explorers.  We  do 
no  other  work,"  I  told  him. 

“Do  not  think  to  fool  me,  Senor,"  he  answered.  “You  are  engaged  in 
some  kind  of  work."  We  only  could  reiterate  our  denial.  He  began  warm¬ 
ing  up  to  his  role  of  inquisitor;  his  scowl  deepened,  his  manner  became 
more  pontifical.  You  could  see  that  he  was  enjoying  himself  immensely. 
Already  he  was  anticipating  the  smiles  of  his  superiors  in  Mexico  City  for 
his  clever  and  audacious  unmasking  of  “gringo  spies."  He  felt  himself  to 
be  a  made  man — it  oozed  from  every  pore.  “Why  should  any  one  want  to 
go  to  Turtle  Inlet  unless  that  person’s  work  consisted  in  spying  on  Mag¬ 
dalena  Bay?"  he  queried  triumphantly. 

“Nuts!"  I  retorted  in  English,  then  added  in  Spanish,  “There  is  nothing 
there  to  spy  on;  nothing  but  desert,  mangroves,  and  muddy  water." 

“Exactly,"  he  said  grandly.  “That  is  why  I  am  convinced  that  you  are 
both  spies.  In  the  name  of  the  Mexican  Government  I  hereby  place  you 
under  arrest." 

Thinking  it  over,  I  could  hardly  blame  the  fellow.  From  his  point  of 
view  nothing  we  had  said  made  sense.  He  dispatched  a  messenger  to  sum¬ 
mon  the  Captain  of  the  Guard.  When  this  personage  appeared,  we  could 
have  sworn  that  he  came  straight  from  Hollywood.  He  had  the  long  droop¬ 
ing  mustachios,  the  hard  glint  in  his  eye,  that  are  a  director's  dream  of 
Pancho  Villa.  However,  he  was  short  and  roly-poly,  and  his  seamed  brown 
face  looked  as  though  it  might  break  into  a  smile  at  any  moment.  He  in¬ 
structed  us  to  follow  him,  and  as  we  marched  away,  footsteps  behind  made 
us  look  back.  The  two  armed  guards  were  close  upon  our  heels. 

We  followed  the  Captain  down  the  beach  which  served  as  the  street, 
and  following  his  example,  dodged  in  between  the  buildings  to  get  away 
from  the  force  of  the  wind.  He  finally  guided  us  into  a  dark  hallway  and  up 
a  flight  of  stairs — in  imminent  danger  of  collapse.  The  door  was  opened 
by  a  young  and  handsome  girl  who  had  the  perfect  oval  features  and  blue- 
black  hair  of  a  Spaniard.  “My  wife,"  he  announced.  “This  is  my  house. 
Here  I  will  hold  you  prisoners." 

The  room  we  stepped  into  was  barren  of  furniture  and  the  floor,  like 
the  stairs,  threatened  momentarily  to  break  through.  We  were  ushered 
into  a  little  living  room  in  which  there  were  several  chairs,  a  bed,  and  a 
table.  Shells  formed  elaborate  designs  upon  the  walls  and  were  set  round 
the  walls  on  crude  shelves.  On  the  table  was  a  well-thumbed  deck  of  play¬ 
ing  cards. 


51 


The  Captain  of  the  Guard  Plays  Poker 

By  now  the  Captain  had  dropped  some  of  his  formality.  He  turned  to 
me  and  asked,  "Senor,  do  you  know  how  to  play  poker?” 

" Capitdn ,  I  know  the  game,”  I  replied,  grinning. 

He  smiled  and  his  seamed  face  broke  into  a  pattern  of  wrinkles.  "Ah, 
Senor,  I  hoped  you  played  poker;  that  is  why  I  brought  you  to  my  house.” 
He  immediately  began  taking  off  his  Sam  Browne  belt  and  was  soon  peeled 
down  to  his  shirt-sleeves. 

"I  believe,”  he  said,  "that  your  period  of  captivity  will  be  extremely 
pleasant  for  both  of  us.  Let  us  hope  that  it  may  continue.  Maria,”  he  called, 
"fix  us  something  to  eat.” 

While  Ginger  and  Maria  bustled  round  getting  supper,  the  Captain 
sat  down  across  the  table  from  me  and  dealt  a  hand  of  cards.  After  one  or 
two  rounds,  he  said,  "I  am  very  fortunate.  Few  in  this  place  know  how  to 
play  this  game.”  I  rather  doubted  the  wisdom  of  his  use  of  the  word  "for¬ 
tunate,”  for  it  seemed  to  me  that  unless  he  began  to  play  better  poker,  and 
at  once,  his  point  of  view  might  change.  Then  a  dinner  of  tortillas  and 
pounded  and  fried  dried  fish  was  served.  During  the  meal  I  asked  the 
Captain  why  we  were  being  held. 

"Senor,  they  think  you  are  making  a  map  of  Magdalena  Bay,  and  they 
want  to  get  in  touch  with  Mexico  City  to  find  out  what  to  do  with  you. 
They  have  sent  a  telegram  to  El  Presidente .” 

"And  how  long  will  it  take  for  an  answer?”  I  questioned. 

"Who  can  say?”  he  replied.  "It  might  take  a  day  or  two;  perhaps  much 
longer.  It  depends  upon  what  El  Preside?ite  is  doing  when  the  telegram 
arrives.  Have  you  seen  our  gaol,  Senor?”  I  replied  in  the  negative.  "Ah,  it  is 
just  as  well,  perhaps:  it  is  not  a  pleasant  place.  We  have  had  no  prisoners  for 
a  year  or  more  and  my  pigs  have  been  using  it.  It  would  be  most  distaste¬ 
ful  to  the  Sehora.  I  think  it  would  be  better  for  me  to  hold  you  both  pris¬ 
oners  here  in  my  house  where  you  and  I  can  play  poker.  Which  do  you 
prefer,  Senor?” 

"We  would  rather  stay  here,”  I  said  meekly. 

The  Captain  beamed.  "I  think  we  shall  make  very  good  friends.  We 
shall  play  poker — the  women  shall  cook.  Ah,  we  shall  have  one  happy 
party.” 

The  Captain  and  I  continued  our  poker  playing  until  the  small  hours 
of  the  morning.  Ginger  and  I  finally  got  to  sleep  on  the  floor,  as  the  house 
boasted  no  guest  beds. 

The  next  morning  we  were  taken  before  the  Port  Captain  for  further 
questioning.  Eventually  he  dismissed  us  and  I  went  back  to  the  poker 
game.  Several  days  went  by.  Each  day  started  off  with  the  Captain  shuffling 
his  well-worn  deck.  He  also  continued  to  lose  steadily  and  happily  since  I 
spent  the  proceeds  of  his  bad  luck  on  tequila.  After  a  "spot”  or  two  of  the 
fiery  liquid,  neither  of  us  cared  who  won  or  lost.  It  was  just  one  "happy 
party.” 

The  Captain  continued  to  marvel  at  the  niceties  of  "gringo  poker.”  He 


52  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

watched  me  closely  as  I  dealt  the  cards.  He  thought  my  success  was  due  to 
my  ' 'delicate  touch’* — or  so  he  said. 

Eventually  I  began  to  wonder  just  how  energetically  the  Captain,  or 
any  one  else,  was  trying  to  establish  our  innocence.  True,  he  told  us  every 
day  how  passionately  he  proclaimed  our  guiltlessness  to  the  Capitan  del 
Puer to;  but  he  seemed  singularly  untroubled  by  his  continued  failure  to 
secure  our  release.  So,  after  supper  one  night,  I  made  the  Captain  this 
proposition: 

“ Capitan ,  how  would  you  like  to  learn  to  play  poker  as  the  gringos 
play  it?  Would  you  be  interested  in  finding  out  how  this  is  done?” 

He  broke  into  smiles.  “But  surely,  Serior.  Oh,  there  are  so  many  things 
I  do  not  know  about  poker  that  I  am  most  eager  to  learn.” 

“All  right,”  I  said,  “I'll  teach  you  if  you  will  help  me.  As  you  know,  my 
Capitan,  we  are  most  anxious  to  continue  our  travels  in  your  charming 
country.  Due  to  a  slight  misunderstanding,  we  have  had  to  trespass  greatly 
upon  your  hospitality.  I  am  sure,  however,  that  if  you,  personally,  would 
use  your  prestige  with  the  Capitan  del  Puerto ,  he  would  release  us.”  From 
the  expression  on  his  face  I  knew  I  had  smelt  a  rat,  for  he  seemed  slightly 
reluctant  to  put  his  “prestige”  to  the  test.  I  hastily  continued,  “Very  well; 
let  us  play  five  hands  just  to  prove  the  superiority  or  inferiority  of  gringo 
poker  against  all  other  systems  of  poker.  If  you  win  all  five  hands,  I  will 
then  show  you,  without  further  obligation  on  your  part,  all  that  I  know 
about  gringo  poker.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  you  cannot  win  all  five  hands, 
then  I  shall  show  you  how  to  play  the  game — but  only  when  we  are 
released.” 

“Yes,  that  is  a  most  fair  proposition,”  he  agreed. 

I  dealt  the  cards.  I  had  picked  up  here  and  there  quite  a  few  of  the  finer 
points  of  dealing.  I  had  never  had  occasion  to  use  them — but  I  knew  them. 
The  Captain’s  cards,  while  good,  mind  you,  were  not .  .  .  conclusively  so. 
He  was  both  philosophical  and  resigned  about  it;  a  philosophy  slightly 
tinged,  I  began  to  feel,  with  a  growing  scepticism  regarding  gringo  poker 
.  .  .  but  as  the  game  progressed  an  appreciation  of  its  speculative  possibili¬ 
ties  dawned  on  the  Captain,  for  after  the  fifth  and  final  game  he  sighed 
rather  woefully,  “Ah,  Senor,  I  wish  that  I,  too,  might  have — how  shall  I 
say  it?  Y es,  the  Senor’s  'delicate  touch’  with  cards.  Then  I  could  win  from 
any  man  in  Baja  California.” 

The  next  day  we  saw  little  of  the  Captain.  About  four  o’clock  he  re¬ 
turned  to  his  quarters  and  announced  that  we  were  free  to  leave.  So  we 
accompanied  him  to  the  Port  Captain’s  office,  where  that  dignitary,  with 
effusive  apologies,  formally  released  us.  But  we  were  not  allowed  to  leave 
Magdalena  until  I  had  instructed  the  Captain  of  the  Guard  in  the  finer 
points  of  gringo  poker. 

Later  we  learnt  that  his  accomplishments,  following  my  tutelage,  had 
not  proved  of  unalloyed  benefit.  There  were  rumours  of  a  shooting  scrape 
over  his  phenomenal  luck! 


Chapter  Seven 


MAKE  WAY  FOR  A  SCHOOL  OF  WHALES! 

The  next  day  we  returned  to  Santa  Margarita,  where  our  native  friends 
held  a  fiesta  for  us  which  made  our  leave-taking  the  following  morning 
doubly  hard.  The  women  clung  to  Ginger,  while  the  men  tried  to  persuade 
us  to  make  our  permanent  home  with  them.  We  missed  saying  good-bye  to 
Jose  and  Lazaro,  who  were  off  in  the  sailboat.  At  last  we  broke  away  and 
started  paddling  towards  Cabo  Tosco,  the  southernmost  point  of  the  island. 
Half-way,  we  met  Jose  and  Lazaro  who  were  lounging  comfortably  on  deck 
beneath  their  idly  flapping  sail. 

‘'Where  are  you  going,  Jos6?”  I  called.  They  were  going  to  Cabo  Tosco 
to  get  tijeretas '  eggs,  he  said.  “That’s  where  we’re  going,  too,’’  I  called 
back. 

“Come  aboard,  Sefior,  and  wait  until  the  wind  rises,”  he  suggested, 
“and  then  we  can  all  go  together.” 

“But  we  can  paddle  there  in  a  couple  of  hours,”  I  answered.  “When  you 
arrive,  we  will  have  food  ready  and  waiting  for  you.” 

“Why  are  you  in  such  a  hurry,  Senor?”  he  asked.  “Surely  there  is  no 
one  waiting  for  you  there.  The  wind  will  blow  after  while,”  he  added 
philosophically. 

But  we  paddled  off,  leaving  them  shaking  their  heads.  “Strange  people, 
why  do  they  hurry?”  we  could  almost  hear  them  say — to  which  we  could 
have  given  no  intelligent  answer. 

As  we  neared  the  southern  tip  of  the  island,  we  came  upon  a  great  school 
of  sharks.  Some  of  them  came  so  near  the  Vagabunda  that  they  almost 
touched  its  fragile  sides.  One  huge  fellow  rolled  up  under  the  canoe,  nearly 
capsizing  us.  “He’s  trying  to  tip  us  over  so  he  can  get  a  square  meal!” 
I  said  excitedly. 

“The  natives  say  that  when  sharks  are  particularly  hungry  they  do 
attack  small  boats,  and  I  think  we'd  better  make  tracks  for  a  less  crowded 
spot,”  Ginger  answered. 

We  hastily  paddled  close  inshore,  continuing  on  in  about  a  foot  of  water. 
The  man-eaters  kept  pace  with  us  just  outside  the  shallow  water,  until  we 
finally  arrived  at  the  tiny  cove  that  was  our  destination. 

The  fish  were  running  and  the  air  was  filled  with  man-of-war  or  frigate 
birds,  called  by  the  natives  tijeretci>  although  we  have  heard  them  called 
tijerilla  and  tijera.  All  three  names  are  derived  from  the  Spanish  word  for 
scissors,  because  when  in  flight  the  bird’s  forked  tail  opens  and  closes  like 


54  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

a  pair  of  scissors.  These  birds  are  great  fishers,  but  oddly  enough,  they  can 
neither  land  nor  rise  from  water.  Instead,  they  skim  down  close  to  it,  seize 
a  fish  in  their  long,  hooked  beaks,  and  fly  off  without  wetting  a  feather. 

A  small  breeze  had  sprung  up,  roughening  the  water;  and  while  we 
were  watching,  one  of  the  birds  dived  after  a  fish  and  was  knocked  over  by 
a  whitecap.  Then  an  amazing  thing  occurred.  Other  tijeretas ,  fishing  nearby, 
dropped  everything  and  flew  to  his  aid.  They  hovered  in  the  air  a  moment, 
and  then,  as  though  executing  a  long  planned  and  trained  manoeuvre, 
swooped  down  upon  the  bird  struggling  in  the  water.  Each  member  of  the 
life-saving  crew  gripped  some  part  of  its  body  in  their  strong  beaks,  and 
rising  in  the  air  carried  the  rescued  tijereta  with  them.  When  high  enough, 
they  released  him,  whereupon  he  shook  out  his  feathers  and  coasted  to  a 
nearby  mangrove  tree  to  dry  out. 

We  noticed  that  while  some  of  the  tijeretas  were  expert  in  securing  fish, 
others,  not  so  dextrous,  stole  from  the  more  successful  birds.  They  make 
their  nests  in  the  tops  of  the  mangroves,  and  lay  only  one  egg  at  a  time. 
If  this  egg  is  taken,  the  female  lays  another.  While  she  is  off  fishing,  the 
male  bird  incubates  the  egg.  Securing  the  eggs  is  easy,  but  unpleasant, 
because  generations  of  birds  have  covered  the  trees  with  feathers  and 
guano.  They  are  so  tame  that  sometimes  they  have  to  be  pushed  from  the 
nest;  and  while  you  rob  it,  they  circle  round  screaming  insults  and  threats. 

We  placed  the  pilfered  eggs  in  a  kettle  of  water.  If  they  sank,  they  were 
fresh;  if  they  floated,  incubation  had  already  begun  and  we  put  them  back 
in  the  nest.  Jose  came  ashore  just  as  we  were  replacing  some.  He  grinned 
as  he  watched  us.  “The  Senor  makes  more  work,  but  then  it  makes  in 
eggs,  to  make  more  work  for  the  Senor,'"  he  laughed. 

Boiled  tijereta  eggs  make  a  good  meal.  They  are  larger  than  a  hen's 
egg  and  have  a  flavour  all  their  own;  but  they  can  be  cooked  in  most  of  the 
same  ways. 

After  trying  to  dissuade  us  from  going  further  down  the  coast,  Jose 
moaned  when  he  learnt  that  we  were  going  out  by  the  bar  at  Cabo 
Tosco.  “Oh,  you  can't  do  that,"  he  said.  “We  never  go  out  by  the  bar  at 
this  time  of  year,  the  breakers  are  too  high.  Further  south  is  Boca  Colorado, 
where  we  can  sometimes  get  out.  You  cross  this  channel  to  Crescente 
Island  and  continue  up  the  bay  until  you  come  to  Boca  Colorado.'' 

The  next  morning  we  started  off.  The  tide  was  going  out  and  we  were 
paddling  at  an  angle,  upstream,  to  offset  the  strong  current.  Breakers 
crashed  heavily  on  the  bar.  A  third  of  the  way  across  the  narrow  channel 
we  saw  to  the  north  what  looked  like  great  puffs  of  smoke.  We  thought  at 
first  that  it  might  be  the  American  battle  fleet  at  practice;  they  used  to 
come  to  these  waters,  we  knew.  “But  there’s  no  noise,  no  boom,''  said 
Ginger. 

“And  now  that  I  think  of  it,  I  don't  believe  the  fleet  comes  here  any 
more,'*  I  answered. 


Make  IV ay  for  a  School  of  JVhalesl  55 

Big  black  puffs  shot  up  from  the  water,  hung  an  instant,  then  disap¬ 
peared.  Sometimes  four  or  five  appeared  at  once.  The  colour  changed  from 
black  to  grey  and  then  to  white  vapour  as  they  steadily  came  our  way. 

Dan,  gasped  Ginger,  that  s  a  school  of  whales!”  It  was  too  late  by 
this  time  to  do  anything  about  it;  we  were  half-way  across  the  channel  and 
fighting  a  swift  current.  W  hales  are  supposed  to  be  afraid  of  noise,”  she 
continued.  "Do  you  suppose  we  could  make  enough  to  stop  them  until  we 
reach  the  other  side  of  the  channel?  If  they  try  to  go  out  while  we're  trying 
to  cross,  there  isn't  going  to  be  much  room  for  us.” 

No,  there  isn  t  going  to  be  much  room,”  I  agreed  looking  round  at 
the  channel,  which  at  this  point  was  only  about  a  hundred  and  fifty  yards 

wide.  If  those  whales  decide  to  come  through  here,  we  re  going  to  be  in 
a  traffic  jam.” 

W  hen  they  were  within  fifty  yards  of  us  we  began  making  all  the  noise 
we  could.  And  were  we  in  a  frame  of  mind  to  make  it!  I  thought,  “The 
water  s  full  of  sharks,  and  if  a  whale  brought  its  huge  tail  down  on  the 
canoe  or  came  up  beneath  us,  what  would  happen?”  I  shivered;  it  was  an 
appalling  speculation.  So  we  filled  the  air  with  shouts  and  gunshots,  and 
pounded  on  the  canoe.  Our  idea  of  noise  differed  apparently  from  a  w  hale's 
idea  of  what  it  was  afraid  of,  for  they  came  charging  down  upon  us  without 
hesitation.  One  big  fellow  broke  water  just  in  front  of  the  canoe.  As  he 
emerged,  he  blew  a  high  geyser,  most  of  which  landed  on  us.  With  his 
great  tail  smacking  the  water,  he  dived,  showering  the  cockpit. 

This  was  our  first  close-up  of  these  gargantuans — the  largest  animals 
ever  to  inhabit  the  earth,  so  the  zoologists  say.  We  had  often  seen  them 
from  a  distance,  but  a  whale  a  mile  away  and  a  whale  as  a  next-door  neigh¬ 
bour  .  .  .  well,  it  is  different.  Fifty  or  sixty  feet  long,  and  weighing  many 
tons,  yet  they  seemed  as  sportive  as  kittens.  When  they  came  to  the  sur¬ 
face,  they  spouted  clouds  of  vapour  through  a  nostril  placed  high  on  their 
heads,  and  looked  for  all  the  world  like  submarines  coming  up  from  a  dive. 
Remaining  a  moment  to  fill  their  great  lungs  with  air,  they  dived  silently, 
their  huge  tails  smacking  the  water.  It  was  a  breath-taking  sight  .  .  . 
ten  feet  away  ...  in  a  canvas  canoe! 

As  we  watched  them  the  canoe  rose  with  a  lurch,  lifted  completely  out 
of  the  water.  On  each  side  of  us  there  was  a  huge  expanse  of  mottled  grey 
and  white,  with  big  barnacles  clinging  to  it.  We  were  riding  topside  of 
Moby  Dick! 

"Dan!  Dan!”  Ginger  screamed.  "We're  on  a  whale's  back!” 

"You're  telling  me!”  I  yelled  back. 

"What  do  we  do  now?” 

"Nothing!”  I  said.  "The  whale  does  it.  Hang  on  tight.” 

The  canoe  executed  a  series  of  sickening  skids  as  it  lay  half  over  on  its 
side.  I  suppose  we  were  just  another  barnacle  to  that  whale,  but  he  looked 
like  the  Queen  Mary  to  us!  Then  the  canoe  started  to  volplane,  and  pitched 


56  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

violently  into  the  water.  The  whale’s  great  tail — it  seemed  twenty  feet 
across — hovered  over  us  .  .  .  and  then  came  down.  The  canoe  bounced  into 
the  air  and  we  catapulted  into  the  channel.  We  took  one  look  round;  the 
water  had  its  usual  quota  of  sharks,  which  with  the  breakers  on  the  bar 
gave  us  an  added  incentive  in  our  race  towards  the  canoe.  Breathless,  we 
climbed  aboard;  but  where  in  heaven’s  name  were  the  paddles?  Then  I 
spotted  them  drifting  forty  feet  away.  The  current  was  rapidly  carrying 
us  towards  the  crashing  breakers.  I  had  to  get  those  paddles! 

“I'm  going  to  take  a  chance,’’  I  told  Ginger.  And  tying  one  end  of  the 
harpoon  line  round  me,  while  Ginger  hung  on  to  the  other,  I  dived  over¬ 
board.  I  secured  one  paddle,  but  meanwhile  the  canoe  drifted  rapidly  to¬ 
wards  the  surf,  so  I  let  the  other  paddle  go  and  climbed  aboard.  With  the 
rescued  paddle  I  managed  to  recover  the  other  one.  We  then  headed  for 
the  sand  spit  we  had  left  that  morning,  for  both  of  us  had  had  all  the  ex¬ 
citement  that  we  needed  in  any  one  day. 

“Well,’’  said  Ginger  after  we  had  landed,  “that’s  another  one  for  Rip¬ 
ley.  Nobody  in  the  world  will  believe  that  story;  and  if  we  ever  do  get 
back  home,  I  shall  certainly  hesitate  to  tell  it.” 

The  next  morning,  without  further  incident,  we  crossed  the  channel  and 
continued  down  to  Boca  Colorado.  Here  we  found  a  phenomenon  charac¬ 
teristic  of  this  section  of  Magdalena  Bay — everything  was  red!  The  bushes 
and  mangrove  trees;  the  sea  water,  great  patches  of  it — all  were  unmis¬ 
takably  red.  No  doubt  some  minute  marine  organism  causes  the  strange 
coloration.  The  name,  Boca  Colorado,  means  Red  Mouth  or  Opening.  I 
remembered  that  on  some  of  the  early  maps  of  California,  the  Gulf  of 
California  is  called  the  “Vermilion  Sea.”  It  seemed  probable  that  we  should 
find  similar  phenomena  in  the  Gulf. 

The  breakers  here  were  worse  than  at  Cabo  Tosco,  and  we  were  unable 
to  get  out  through  the  surf.  We  tried  another  lagoon  and  promptly  grounded 
on  a  mudflat.  Finally  we  sledded  the  canoe  across  slippery  mud,  and  after 
heartbreaking  work,  portaged  the  canoe  and  the  equipment  over  moun¬ 
tains  of  sand  dunes  to  the  ocean.  By  the  time  this  job  was  completed  we 
were  completely  exhausted,  but  we  made  up  our  minds  that  we  were  going 
to  leave  this  damned  bay — and  soon!  With  our  food  supply  almost  gone, 
with  only  one  gallon  of  water  left,  we  put  to  sea  next  morning — glad  to 
be  deep-sea  sailors  once  more. 


Chapter  Eight 


WRECK  AT  BOCA  DE  CONEJO 


The  relief  that  we  felt  in  being  at  sea  again,  after  our  experiences  in 
Magdalena  Bay,  stayed  with  us  the  early  part  of  the  first  day’s  cruis¬ 
ing.  We  talked,  as  we  watched  the  rocky,  precipitous  shore  line  glide  by, 
of  those  other  sea  adventurers  who  had  passed  these  coasts  long  before  us; 
of  Drake  and  the  Golden  Hind ,  Cabrillo,  Portola,  Cortez;  Yankee  clippers 
en  route  for  the  New  Eldorado;  the  old-time  whalers  and  their  daring 
crews — all  the  storied  figures  of  the  past  whose  names  are  California.  We 
could  almost  see  the  stately  galleons  of  Spain  searching  for  the  Seven  Cities 
of  Cibola;  running  with  the  rape  of  Montezuma’s  altars,  the  treasures  of 
Atahualpha’s  “Temple  of  the  Sun’’;  pursued  by  ships  whose  mastheads 
flew  the  flag  of  Britain — or  a  nameless  flag  of  black. 

Then  the  weather  changed  and  our  preoccupations  returned  to  the  pres¬ 
ent.  About  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  the  horizon  to  the  south  turned 
black  and  the  wind  came  in  chilly,  spiteful  gusts.  Large  swells  began  to 
roll  in.  Ginger,  shivering  with  cold,  urged,  “Don’t  you  think  we’d  better 
try  to  land?  That’s  a  real  storm  coming  up.’’ 

“It  is  a  real  storm,”  I  agreed,  “but  I  don’t  know  about  landing.  Look  at 
that  surf.  But  we  might  find  a  place  beyond  that  little  point.” 

From  the  chart  we  identified  the  place  as  Boca  de  Conejo,  but  found, 
instead  of  the  sheltered  bay  that  we  had  hoped  for,  merely  a  straight  coast¬ 
line  such  as  we  had  been  following.  Boca  de  Conejo  was  only  a  small  beach, 
bounded  by  towering  cliffs,  and  pounded  by  heavy  surf.  However,  there 
was  the  storm  bearing  down  upon  us;  we  had  to  land.  So  we  prepared  to 
shoot  the  surf — cruising  about  seventy-five  yards  off  the  beach.  This  was 
our  usual  procedure  when  landing  through  heavy  surf.  We’d  first  lash 
down  the  sailing  gear,  and  then  ride  outside  the  breaker  line  for  twenty 
minutes  or  longer,  observing  the  way  the  swells  broke  and  counting  the 
number  of  high  and  low  breakers.  They  always  run  in  series.  Then  we’d 
try  to  shoot  inshore  with  the  low  breaker. 

By  now  we  were  about  fifty  yards  offshore,  and  there  seemed  to  be  a 
fair  chance  of  getting  in  without  a  spill.  A  chill  wind  was  blowing,  but  we 
had  stripped  to  swimming  shorts  and  sweaters — just  in  case.  Our  atten¬ 
tion  had  been  focussed  so  intently  inshore,  watching  the  surf,  that  we  were 
startled  to  feel  the  canoe  rise  suddenly  on  a  great  swell,  then  drop  abruptly, 
a  sensation  similar  to  that  caused  by  the  swift  descent  of  an  express  ele- 


58  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

vator.  Hastily  looking  seaward  we  saw  another  great  green  monster  bear¬ 
ing  down  on  us;  it  grew  mountainous  as  it  approached,  and  the  crest  was 
dangerously  sharp. 

“Give  her  hell,”  I  shouted  to  Ginger.  “We've  got  to  get  out  of  the 
way  before  it  breaks.” 

We  paddled  madly  to  get  into  deeper  water,  but  before  we  could  get 
out  of  its  way,  we  had  climbed  the  side  of  the  great  crest,  balanced  for  an 
age-long  second  on  its  peak — and  then  the  sea  rolled  out  from  beneath  us. 
We  were  safe.  Out  to  sea,  however,  we  could  see  another,  larger  swell,  its 
great  height  more  terrifying  than  the  last,  its  crest  racing  down  upon  us. 
Again  we  paddled  furiously  to  get  beyond  the  breaking  point,  getting  fur¬ 
ther  and  further  away  from  the  beach.  By  now  we  were  fully  a  hundred 
yards  offshore.  “Dan!”  shouted  Ginger.  “Breakers  just  can’t  break  this 
far  from  shore,  or  in  water  this  deep!”  A  note  of  panic  was  in  her  voice 
as  the  monstrous  wave  continued  to  race  towards  us. 

“Look  out!  Here  it  comes!”  I  yelled,  as  the  huge  sea  towered  above  us. 

The  nose  of  the  canoe  rose  in  the  swell  until  it  was  almost  over  our 
heads  from  where  we  sat  in  the  cockpit.  Ginger  looked  up,  and  over  the 
roar  of  the  water  I  heard  her  yell,  “It's  forty  feet  high!” 

Almost  before  we  knew  what  was  happening  we  were  turning  over 
backwards — looping  the  loop — inside  the  crest  of  the  breaker.  I  froze  on 
to  the  stern,  while  Ginger’s  knuckles  were  white  as  she  grimly  hung  on 
to  the  sides  of  the  cockpit.  The  canoe  stood  straight  up  on  its  stern.  Over 
our  heads  we  could  see  the  breaker’s  white  crest,  slowly,  relentlessly  curling 
over  us.  Then  the  huge  sea  crashed,  and  the  canoe  pitched  over  backwards 
— end  over  end — in  the  churning  surf. 

As  I  shot  forward  into  the  water,  I  could  feel  the  canoe  scrape  along  my 
back,  then  I  was  free  of  it.  I  remember  being  twisted  and  turned,  pounded 
and  tossed  about  like  a  chip  in  that  powerful  surge.  It  seemed  hours  before  I 
came  to  the  surface,  but  when  my  head  finally  broke  the  water  I  could  see 
our  canoe  inshore  with  Ginger  still  in  it. 

“What  shall  I  do?”  she  shouted. 

“Get  out  and  swim  ashore,”  I  yelled  back,  wondering  why  she  asked. 

“I  can’t,”  she  cried,  “I'm  pinned  in  the  cockpit.” 

Then  I  saw  why.  The  sail  had  slipped  its  lashings  and  now  lay  across 
the  cockpit  with  only  Ginger's  head  sticking  to  one  side  of  it.  Just  then 
another  breaker  came  along,  and  I  was  rolled  and  tossed  in  the  surf.  Com¬ 
ing  to  the  surface  once  more  I  saw  the  canoe  rolling  over  sideways  with 
Ginger  still  in  it.  Again  I  sank  in  water  that  was  almost  foam;  again  I 
came  up,  this  time  to  see  that  Ginger  was  free  and  swimming  inshore. 
Almost  too  exhausted  to  breathe,  I  let  the  breakers  carry  me  towards 
shore,  where  they  were  also  carrying  the  canoe.  Finally,  we  both  dragged 
ourselves  up  on  the  beach. 

Ginger's  first  words  were,  “Where's  your  sweater?” 


Wreck  at  Boca  de  Conejo  59 

"I  don't  know,"  I  answered  vaguely.  "I  had  it  on  when  the  breaker 
struck,  but  it’s  gone  now." 

"Well,  I'm  not  surprised,"  she  said.  "Every  time  I  saw  you,  you  were 
performing  contortions  that  probably  gave  you  no  time  to  think  of  sweat¬ 
ers." 

We  were  both  bruised  and  badly  skinned  from  being  scraped  across  the 
ocean  floor,  but  when  the  canoe  came  in  we  managed  to  drag  it  far  up  on 
the  beach.  We  collected  the  paddles  and  other  gear  as  it  washed  in — but 
we  never  saw  the  sweater  again.  In  the  intervals,  we  stood  laughing  at  our 
perfect  three-point  landing,  for  each  of  us,  including  the  canoe,  had  landed 
on  a  different  point  along  the  little  beach.  But  as  we  sat  down  on  the  sand, 
now  that  it  was  over,  we  began  to  tremble.  Ginger’s  face  was  white  and 
drawn — and  mine,  too,  I  suspect.  She  began  to  cry.  We  both  always  suf¬ 
fered  a  nervous  reaction  after  a  particularly  dangerous  bit  of  excitement, 
but  it  affected  us  differently.  I’d  swear,  and  Ginger  would  cry — and  we'd 
both  shiver.  So  we  huddled  together  and  shivered  for  awhile,  trying  to  dig 
the  sand  out  of  our  eyes  and  ears. 

The  next  morning,  refreshed  by  a  good  night's  sleep,  which  we  sorely 
needed,  we  took  a  good  look  at  the  canoe. 

"It’s  bad  enough,"  I  reported  in  reply  to  Ginger’s  hopeful  query.  "Four 
broken  ribs,  a  portion  of  the  siding  caved  in,  and  the  canvas  is  ripped  along 
the  keel." 

"What  do  we  do  now — or  are  we  permanently  marooned?"  was  her 
next  question.  For  the  moment  I  did  not  know.  "Just  a  little  question  of 
lumber,  canvas,  glue,  and  paint,"  she  said  mournfully.  "Apparently  that’s 
all  we  need  to  get  us  off  this  God-forsaken  beach."  She  laughed — but  with¬ 
out  merriment. 

"Oh,  you  think  that's  funny,  do  you?  Wait  and  see;  we’ll  get  out  of 
here,"  I  said.  "In  the  meantime,  how  would  you  like  to  take  a  hike  up  the 
canyon?" 

We  started  off,  picking  our  way  among  the  big  boulders  that  lined  the 
dry  wash.  A  few  stunted  mesquite  grew  among  the  rocks  and  big  card6n 
cacti  stood  everywhere.  Many  of  these  cacti  had  been  uprooted  by  the  wind 
and  lay  bleaching  in  the  sun.  Half-way  up,  the  arroyo  widened  out  and  we 
struck  what  seemed  to  be  a  trail.  Then  abruptly  ahead  of  us,  in  a  desolate 
clearing  between  the  high  cliffs,  stood  a  hut  and  a  few  sheds. 

The  hut  was  a  tiny  structure  made  from  the  big  card6nes  we  had  seen 
in  the  arroyo.  Their  pulpy,  thorny  outside  covering,  rotted  away  by  the 
elements,  left  porous,  spongelike  trunks,  which  were  set  vertically  into 
the  ground  to  form  the  hut’s  sides.  The  wide-eaved  roof  was  made  from 
palm  thatch.  On  the  ground,  near  the  hut,  a  cowhide  was  pegged  out  to 
dry.  Round  a  circular  stone  fireplace  were  grouped  three  huge  vertebrae 
that  had  once  belonged  to  a  preposterously  large  whale.  On  rawhide  lines, 


60  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

strung  between  card6nes,  strips  of  meat  were  drying  in  the  sun.  Off  to  one 
side  were  ramshackle  sheds  made  from  the  same  materials  as  the  hut. 

Peeping  round  a  corner  of  the  hut,  we  saw  a  child,  a  little  brown  boy 
of  seven  or  eight.  He  was  practically  naked,  but  he  came  readily,  though  a 
trifle  shyly,  at  Ginger’s  call,  and  as  readily  answered  her  questions.  His 
father  was  gone,  he  said,  but  his  mother,  who  was  ill,  was  at  home. 

"I  think  I’ll  go  in,  and  find  out  if  there’s  anything  I  can  do  for  her,” 
Ginger  said,  hurrying  off. 

I  continued  talking  to  the  child.  Where  had  his  father  gone?  “Off  trying 
to  kill  a  steer,  that  we  may  eat,”  the  child  answered.  His  father  had  once 
had  many  cattle,  but  the  cattle  were  now  starving  because  the  drought  had 
left  no  food  for  them.  He  had  formerly  killed  game  to  feed  his  family,  but 
now  he  had  no  bullets. 

“No  tortillas?”  I  questioned. 

“No,”  he  said.  Pointing  to  the  leathery  black  strips  on  the  rawhide  line, 
“Nothing  but  that.” 

He  told  me  that  it  had  not  rained  “for  a  very  long  time.”  In  fact,  he 
had  never  seen  rain! 

A  half-dozen  starved-looking  chickens  scratched  dispiritedly  round  the 
yard.  His  papa  was  saving  them,  he  said,  in  case  he  should  not  be  able  to 
kill  a  beef  some  day.  Where  did  they  get  their  water  from?  He  took  me 
over  to  a  well.  It  contained  a  cloudy,  brackish-looking  liquid  which  the 
child  assured  me  was  water. 

Then  Ginger  came  out  of  the  hut. 

“Very  sick?”  I  asked. 

“Well,  she's  had  a  baby,  and  at  the  moment  she  isn’t  very  robust.  They 
are  having  a  hard  time.  They  have  a  gun  but  no  bullets.  He  can’t  even 
kill  one  of  his  own  half-starved  cattle  unless  one  wanders  in  the  yard 
looking  for  water.  The  gun  is  a  .22;  can’t  we  spare  a  few  shells  for  it?” 

We  left  some  shells,  a  bit  of  tobacco,  and  some  other  odds  and  ends  that 
we  carried  in  our  pockets,  and  started  back  towards  the  beach. 

“What  was  in  the  hut?”  I  asked. 

“A  bunk  covered  with  palm  thatch  and  rawhide,  a  table,  a  stove  built 
on  a  wooden  platform  covered  with  mud  and  rocks,  a  couple  of  saddles 
in  one  corner,  and  an  olla — that’s  all.” 

“I'm  afraid  there  isn’t  much  that  we  can  do  for  them,  Ginger.  We’re  in 
rather  a  spot  ourselves,  you  know.” 

“I  know  that  too,”  she  answered,  “but  just  the  same  I’m  sorry  for 
them.  I  wish  we  could  do  something.” 

I  stopped  to  examine  some  stunted  trees  growing  in  the  arroyo,  and 
then  cut  them  down  with  my  bolo  knife.  “Ribs  for  the  canoe,”  I  explained. 
“We're  also  going  to  try  to  harpoon  a  couple  of  sharks  today.” 

“What  are  the  sharks  for?”  Ginger  asked  curiously. 

“Paint  and  patches,”  I  replied. 


61 


Wreck  at  Boca  de  Conejo 

We  caught  two  medium-sized  sharks,  removed  their  huge  livers,  sliced 
them  and  set  them  on  a  slanting  rock.  The  hot  sun  rendered  out  the  oil, 
which  dripped  into  a  kettle  placed  beneath.  After  we  had  obtained  suffi¬ 
cient  oil,  we  left  it  in  the  sun,  stirring  it  occasionally  until  it  became  thick 
and  viscous  as  the  moisture  evaporated. 

The  next  morning,  while  we  were  pounding  smooth  some  talc  and 
ochre  which  I  had  dug  out  of  the  cliffs  to  use  in  making  the  body  of  the 
paint,  the  absent  Indio  for  whom  we  had  left  the  ammunition  appeared. 
His  face  beamed  with  pleasure  as  he  thanked  us  profusely  for  the  presents 
we  had  left.  He  was  an  attractive  man  of  medium  stature,  with  large, 
golden-brown  eyes  and  skin,  and  black  hair  of  an  almost  silky  texture.  His 
strong  white  teeth  flashed  when  he  smiled.  He  had  also  brought  a  gift 
“for  the  kind  Senora,”  he  said,  and  proffered  Ginger — one  little,  wizened 

egg! 

We  gravely  accepted  his  gift,  and  thanked  him  heartily,  knowing  how 
much  it  meant  in  his  circumstances.  In  the  afternoon  he  returned  with  two 
rabbits  which  he  had  shot.  These  were  also  “due  to  the  kindness  of  the 
Senora.”  He  would  now  kill  some  rabbits  for  himself,  he  said.  We  were 
deeply  touched  and  grateful  for  the  fresh  food.  We  should  have  liked  to 
refuse  them  because  of  his  greater  necessity;  but  we  knew  that  he  would 
have  been  offended  and  hurt.  We  also  accepted  an  invitation  to  visit  his 
hut  that  evening. 

We  took  along  a  little  of  our  precious  coffee,  and  a  few  grains  of  corn 
and  beans  that  we  had  brought  from  Santa  Margarita.  “Perhaps  he  can 
plant  the  corn  and  beans  near  his  well,”  Ginger  suggested  optimistically. 

The  family  were  waiting  for  us  in  the  yard  where  a  cheerful  fire  blazed. 
We  sat  down  on  the  joints  of  whale  vertebrae  and  talked  about  the  absence 
of  rain.  I  asked,  “Why  don’t  you  kill  your  cattle  if  they  are  dying;  cure  the 
meat,  and  sell  their  hides?” 

“Senor,  I  cannot  butcher  cattle  unless  I  pay  the  government  a  tax  of 
two  and  one  half  pesos  each  for  their  hides.  I  kill  an  occasional  animal  for 
my  own  use,  and  as  long  as  I  do  not  try  to  sell  the  hide  I  am  not  bothered— 
because  they  do  not  know.”  He  played  with  his  baby  girl  and  gently  rocked 
her  as  he  talked.  Yes,  he  would  most  certainly  try  to  make  a  garden  with 
the  seeds,  he  said,  and  thanked  us  for  bringing  them. 

I  pointed  to  the  wide  cracks  in  the  hut  where  the  crooked  trunks  had 
left  spaces  big  enough  to  put  an  arm  through.  “Is  it  not  cold  when  the  wind 
blows?”  I  asked. 

“Si,  it  is  sometimes  cold,”  he  agreed,  “but  the  air  is  good  for  you;  it 
makes  you  strong.” 

Thus  we  spent  the  evening,  talking  and  singing  songs.  On  our  way 
back  to  the  beach,  Ginger  said,  “Amazing  people!  How  do  they  manage 
to  keep  so  cheerful  with  just  nothing?” 

“Well,  suppose  they  weren’t  so  cheerful,”  I  countered,  “would  they  be 


62  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

any  better  off?  They  still  enjoy  just  being  alive;  they  enjoy  each  other — 
and  they  can  even  afford  to  be  generous.  I’ve  seen  people  worse  off,  with 
more.” 

We  spent  days  thereafter  collecting  materials  with  which  to  patch  the 
canoe.  The  work  went  slowly  because  we  had  to  search  for  food  as  well  as 
distil  fresh  water  each  day.  The  country  offered  so  little  in  the  way  of 
game  that  we  had  to  subsist  mainly  on  seafoods. 

Since  we  had  no  canvas  with  which  to  patch  the  Vagabundas  tom  bot¬ 
tom,  we  caught  two  small  sharks  with  hand  lines  and  skinned  them.  After  a 
partial  drying,  I  soaked  them  in  shark  oil  to  soften  them  and  keep  them 
from  curling.  On  the  rocks  at  low  tide  we  found  an  owl  shell  that  secreted 
a  kind  of  glue.  This  little  shell  fish  is  exposed  to  the  sun  at  low  tide,  and 
uses  this  sticky  secretion  to  keep  the  moisture  in,  so  it  will  not  cook  in  its 
own  shell.  It  made  an  excellent  adhesive  for  the  fish-skin  patches. 

Then  our  Indian  friend  managed  to  kill  a  beef,  and  presented  us  with  a 
generous  portion.  Some  of  this  we  salted  and  cured  for  a  reserve  ration 
to  use  on  the  journey  down  to  Cape  San  Lucas. 

The  second  week  we  replaced  the  broken  ribs  with  the  new  hand-hewn 
substitutes,  fitted  new  siding  on  the  canoe,  and  glued  the  fish-skin  patches 
on  the  hull.  After  that  we  gave  her  a  coat  of  shark-oil  paint  of  a  nondescript 
colour. 

Just  before  we  were  ready  to  leave,  Ginger  gave  the  Indian  woman  one 
of  her  sun  suits  to  remake  into  a  dress  for  the  baby.  I  gave  the  man  a  small 
shovel  and  a  few  other  things,  including  a  flashlight,  explaining  the  ad¬ 
vantages  of  hunting  deer  at  night  with  the  aid  of  a  light.  His  pleasure  in 
these  trifles  was  so  great,  and  his  thanks  so  extravagant,  that  we  felt 
embarrassed. 

Finally  the  Vagabunda  was  loaded  for  sea  duty.  We  were  anxious  to  be 
off.  Ginger  had  taken  her  accustomed  place  in  the  cockpit.  I  was  standing 
ready  to  shove  off;  we  were  just  waiting  for  a  chance  to  go  through  the 
surf.  Ginger  turned  and  looked  at  me.  There  was  a  question  in  her  eyes. 
“Yes,  let's  unload,”  I  said.  Simultaneously,  we  had  had  a  hunch  that  this 
was  not  an  auspicious  time  for  sailing,  even  though  it  was  a  beautiful  calm 
morning  and  we  had  no  particular  reason  for  being  apprehensive.  We 
occasionally  had  these  hunches,  and  experience  had  taught  us  that  it  was 
better  not  to  disregard  them.  We  sat  round  wondering  what  was  going 
to  happen  until  three  o'clock,  when  the  “reason”  arrived.  A  violent  storm 
blew  up,  almost  without  warning,  from  the  south.  By  five  o’clock  it  had 
blown  itself  out.  But  what  a  blow  it  was  while  it  lasted!  It  was  probably  a 
good  thing  that  we  hadn't  been  caught  in  it  at  sea. 

The  following  day  was  clear  and  calm.  We  reloaded  and  shot  the  heavy 
surf — just  missing  a  spill — and  headed  toward  Cape  San  Lucas,  the  tip  of 
Baja  California. 


Chapter  Nine 


“THE  DAMN  FOOLS!” 

It's  getting  late,”  I  said.  “How  about  looking  round  for  a  place  to 
land?  We  can  go  on  to  San  Lucas  in  the  morning.” 

“I'd  so  much  rather  sail  on  all  night,  Dan,  than  attempt  another  landing 
on  one  of  these  beaches.  I've  had  about  enough,”  Ginger  said  decisively. 

“Well,  let’s  run  in  and  take  a  peek  anyway,”  I  suggested.  “I  have  a 
feeling  that  we  ought  to  try  to  land  if  we  can.” 

We  ran  inshore.  The  surf  certainly  looked  ugly.  It  was  extremely  doubt¬ 
ful  if  we  could  execute  even  a  “three-point  landing”  there. 

“No  wonder  the  fellows  in  the  Hydrographic  Bureau  were  so  sceptical 
when  we  offered  to  make  maps  and  take  soundings  for  them,”  I  commented. 

“Well,  they  hadn’t  been  able  to.  Why  should  they  think  we  could?” 
Ginger  reminded  me. 

We  had  a  bite  to  eat,  and  Ginger,  deciding  to  take  a  little  rest,  got  out 
the  sleeping  bag.  By  sailing  all  night,  we  could  easily  make  the  village  of 
San  Lucas  by  morning,  and  I  could  manage  the  boat  alone  for  awhile. 
Ginger  would  wake  up  every  now  and  then  to  ask,  “How's  it  going?” 
“Okay,  but  it's  getting  rough,”  I'd  answer. 

By  nine  o’clock  the  wind  had  increased  so  that  handling  the  canoe — we 
were  quartering  the  waves — became  difficult.  The  pitching  of  the  boat 
made  sleep  impossible.  Ginger  got  up  and  began  to  stow  things  away, 
lashing  everything  down,  including  the  paddles.  We  reefed  the  sail,  but 
still  couldn't  battle  the  waves,  so  we  ran  with  them.  This  took  us  directly 
away  from  land. 

“A  sea  anchor,”  I  speculated,  “would  at  least  hold  back  the  canoe  enough 
to  keep  us  from  going  so  far  from  shore.” 

We  proceeded  to  make  one,  using  Ginger’s  sweater,  our  shirts — any¬ 
thing  that  would  form  a  drag.  I  tied  the  bundle  to  the  harpoon  line  and 
trailed  it  astern.  This  helped  some,  but  as  the  wind  increased  the  seas 
became  so  high  that  they  washed  completely  over  the  canoe,  filling  the 
cockpit  and  almost  tearing  our  anchor  loose.  Despite  continual  bailing,  the 
cockpit  was  full  of  water,  and  we  were  soon  reduced  to  trying  to  keep 
afloat.  It  became  a  nightmare.  In  the  darkness  we  could  see  the  great  white 
crests  of  the  seas  as  they  rushed  down  upon  us.  Above  the  gale,  I  could 
hear  Ginger  shout,  “Oh,  if  we  can  just  weather  this  one!” 

“This  sea  anchor  idea  isn't  so  hot,”  I  yelled  back.  “We've  got  to  keep 


64 


Enchanted  Vagabonds 

on  top  of  the  waves;  it's  too  much  to  expect  the  boat  to  go  through  them." 
I  tried  to  pull  the  anchor  in,  but  it  was  too  heavy — I  couldn't  budge  it. 
“I’ll  have  to  cut  the  line,"  I  shouted.  And  cut  I  did,  saying  good-bye  to  our 
shirts  and  the  one  remaining  sweater. 

We  double-reefed  the  sail,  but  even  this  was  hazardous.  When  the  canoe 
dropped  into  the  trough  of  the  waves,  the  sail  went  slack  from  lack  of 
wind;  she  rode  the  crests,  the  gale  filled  it  and  carried  us  along  at  a  dizzy 
pace,  as  though  we  were  riding  a  surfboard.  Every  now  and  then  a  bigger 
sea  would  catch  us,  washing  over  the  canoe  and  nearly  tearing  the  sail  from 
the  mast.  It  took  every  ounce  of  my  strength  on  the  steering  paddle  to 
keep  the  huge  swells  from  rolling  the  canoe  over  sideways. 

The  storm  increased  in  fury.  The  roar  of  the  wind  and  waves  sounded 
like  the  boom  of  cannon  in  our  ears.  We  were  rapidly  being  blown  out  to 
sea.  One  thought  was  constantly  with  us  both:  what  if  we  should  be  carried 
past  the  Cape — into  that  waste  of  water?  In  pitch  darkness  we  continued 
our  battle  to  keep  afloat.  The  icy  seas  that  charged  down  upon  us  and  the 
wind  whining  through  the  rigging  chilled  us  to  the  bone;  the  spray  pelted 
our  shivering  bodies  like  shot. 

Then  it  came!  A  great  black  mountain  of  water,  coming  full  speed  ahead, 
rose  behind  us.  I  shouted  to  Ginger  to  hang  on,  and  saw  her  wriggle  her¬ 
self  more  firmly  into  the  cockpit.  My  arms  were  already  so  tired  that  I 
wondered  if  I  had  strength  enough  left  to  steer  the  canoe  through  this 
catastrophe.  Then  the  wind  struck  just  as  the  towering  pile  of  water 
poured  down  on  us.  The  canoe  rose  in  mid-air,  and  down  we  went  into  the 
trough,  the  canoe  turning  over  and  over — both  of  us  hanging  on  for  dear 
life,  I  was  torn  loose  and  washed  free  by  the  powerful  surge  of  water.  The 
last  I  saw  of  Ginger,  she  was  still  hanging  on  to  the  gunwales  inside  the 
cockpit.  When  I  came  up  I  could  see  the  shiny  bottom  of  the  canoe — but  no 
Ginger.  I  started  swimming  madly  towards  it.  Just  as  I  reached  it,  she 
pulled  herself  up  from  the  other  side.  The  mast  had  broken  off,  and  the  sail 
and  rigging  were  wrapped  round  the  canoe,  partly  pinning  her  down. 
How  she  managed  to  free  herself  and  crawl  out  from  under  is  more  than 
she  or  I  will  ever  know! 

I  had  neither  time  nor  strength  to  shout  directions.  Both  of  us  knew 
that  we  had  to  get  the  canoe  freed  of  the  fouled  rigging  before  we  could 
right  it.  Each  time  a  wave  struck  us,  it  rolled  us  over  and  over  as  we 
worked  frantically  to  clear  the  wreckage.  I  was  afraid  that  the  jagged  end 
of  the  broken  mast  would  puncture  the  side  of  the  canoe.  We  finally  freed 
the  tangled  rigging,  righted  the  canoe,  and  climbed  back  in.  I  tied  the 
painter  to  the  wreckage  of  the  sail,  letting  it  drift  astern  where  it  acted 
as  an  impromptu  sea  anchor. 

The  remainder  of  the  night  seems  like  a  bad  dream.  I  remember  tying 
the  long  heavy  fishline  to  the  painter  to  ease  the  shock  of  the  heavy  seas. 
The  sail  and  broken  mast  made  a  better  sea  anchor  than  the  clothing,  for 


“The  Damn  Fools!*9 


65 


the  mast  kept  it  afloat.  When  it  seemed  best  to  ride  the  waves,  we  payed 
out  the  fishline,  and  pulled  the  anchor  in  between  heavy  seas.  This  probably 
saved  our  lives. 

At  dawn  the  wind  abated.  Soon  we  were  riding  in  comparative  calm. 
The  sun  came  up,  giving  us  encouragement.  We  pulled  in  the  soggy  mass 
that  had  once  been  the  rigging,  and  in  about  two  hours  constructed  a  small 
jury  sail  from  what  was  left  of  the  mast  and  canvas.  With  these  emergency 
repairs  we  attempted  to  set  a  course  in  the  direction  of  land.  Nothing  but 
the  turbulent  ocean  was  visible,  and  the  wind  was  still  strong  enough  to 
cause  concern. 

We  ate  the  doughy,  brine-soaked  mass  that  had  once  been  food.  We 
had  water  in  a  canteen  in  the  stern  of  the  boat,  but  we  didn't  dare  unzip 
the  cockpit.  Unless  the  hull  were  punctured  or  the  canvas  well  of  the  cock¬ 
pit  removed,  the  boat  was  unsinkable.  We  preferred  to  keep  it  that  way. 
Any  one  of  the  big  seas  still  breaking  over  us  occasionally  could  sink  the 
Vagabunda  once  the  water-tight  canvas  of  that  cockpit  covering  was  off’. 
By  sundown  we  were  still  out  of  sight  of  land;  but  during  a  brief  lull  we 
had  hurriedly  opened  the  cockpit,  snatched  the  canteen,  and  closed  the  can¬ 
vas  well  again  without  shipping  water,  so  we  were  no  longer  thirsty. 

We  sailed  all  that  day  and  through  the  following  night,  but  morning 
found  us  still  out  of  sight  of  land.  The  wind  died  down  completely.  We 
were  unable  to  make  headway  except  with  the  paddles.  The  chilling  winds 
of  the  night  before  had  given  way  to  the  blistering  heat  of  a  tropic  sun. 
All  day  long  we  sweated  at  the  paddles  through  a  heaving,  glassy  sea. 
Towards  sundown  Ginger,  pointing  to  a  hazy  blue  speck  on  the  far  horizon, 
said  she  thought  she  could  see  land.  Again  the  wind  sprang  up,  blowing 
another  gale  in  the  wrong  direction,  and  once  more  we  were  obliged  to 
fight  the  raging  seas  until  dawn.  Daylight  found  us  out  of  sight  of  land, 
freakishly  becalmed  under  a  pitiless  sun.  This  day,  too,  we  spent  labouring 
at  the  paddles;  and  before  the  wind  started  up,  we  got  in  close  enough  to 
see  quite  clearly  the  mountains  of  Baja  California.  But  if  this  fresh  wind 
continued  to  blow  us  southward,  it  would  take  us  past  Cape  San  Lucas 
and  into  the  path  of  the  tropical  hurricane — the  treacherous  “chubasco"  of 
the  Gulf  of  California. 

I  wondered  dully  just  what  we'd  do  if  that  happened.  Neither  one  of 
us  could  take  any  more;  we  had  had  little  sleep  since  leaving  Boca  de 
Conejo;  our  carefully  rationed  food  supply,  and  water  were  gone;  our 
tongues  so  swollen  that  speech  was  difficult.  Salt-encrusted,  blistered,  and 
burnt  to  a  crisp,  wre  could  hardly  move.  But  throughout  a  third  long 
night,  we  were  blown  further  from  land.  Somehow  we  marshalled  enough 
strength  to  make  a  little  headway  against  the  contrary  winds,  tapping 
once  again  that  storehouse  of  reserve  energy  that  lies  beyond  the  purely 
physical. 

“We  ought  to  be  able  to  see  the  lighthouse  on  Cape  Falso  unless  we've 


66  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

been  blown  too  far  out  to  sea/'  Ginger  managed  to  whisper.  "I  continually 
think  that  I  do  see  lights,  but  my  judgment's  not  to  be  trusted — I'm  too 
all-in."  She  finally  curled  up  in  the  cockpit,  in  three  inches  of  water,  and 
slept  like  a  baby. 

I  kept  watch  for  the  light,  but  my  tired  eyes  refused  to  focus;  everything 
within  my  field  of  vision  was  doubled.  I  saw  two  masts  on  the  canoe,  that 
crossed  and  recrossed  as  I  tried  to  fix  my  eyes  upon  the  distant  horizon. 
I  knew  that  the  lighthouse  threw  a  powerful  beam,  and  I  should  be  able 
to  see  it.  During  the  storm  I  had  lashed  myself  to  the  stern  of  the  canoe, 
so  that  the  heavy  seas  could  not  sweep  me  off;  and  only  the  ropes  now 
kept  me  from  falling  off  through  sheer  weariness. 

Then  I  began  having  hallucinations;  things  began  to  appear  in  front  of 
me.  A  glass  of  water  balanced  itself  on  the  bow  of  the  canoe;  packages  and 
packages  of  my  favourite  cigarettes,  with  heaps  of  dry  matches  were  beside 
it.  I  would  have  traded  my  right  leg  for  either  one.  I  dreamt  of  dry 
blankets,  and  cups  and  cups  of  hot  coffee.  I  knew  that  heaven  was  a  place 
where  you  could  lie  down.  Later  I  was  home  in  my  den  in  Santa  Ana, 
looking  at  maps  of  Mexico  and  Central  America — maps  on  which  I  had 
placed  tiny  cross-marks.  One  cross  stood  out  clearly;  it  marked  Cape  San 
Lucas,  where  there  was  supposed  to  be  a  treasure  cache.  Now  I  was  back 
in  the  canoe,  with  a  big  cross  wavering  first  to  one  side  and  then  the 
other  of  the  mast,  while  I  babbled  wildly,  "Where  is  that  damned  light!?" 

Some  time  after  midnight  the  wind  died  down.  I  untied  my  lashings  to 
ease  the  pain,  and  tried  to  paddle.  It  was  no  use;  I  was  too  all-in.  Then  I 
was  sure  that  I  saw  a  light — a  faint  beam  through  the  haze — but  my  eyes 
still  reported  strange  things.  I'd  look  down  at  the  cockpit,  shake  my  head 
and  swear,  trying  to  clear  my  foggy  brain  and  vision.  Nevertheless,  each 
time  I  looked  up,  instead  of  seeing  one  light,  I'd  see  two,  one  above  the 
other.  This  further  confused  me,  because  previously  when  my  eyes  went 
out  of  focus,  the  two  images  stayed  on  a  horizontal  plane;  now  the  two 
lights  were  perpendicular.  In  desperation  I  wakened  Ginger.  "Is  there  a 
light  over  there?"  I  pleaded. 

"Yes,  there  are  two  lights,"  she  confirmed. 

"No,  no!  There  can’t  be — we're  both  going  crazy.  There's  only  one 
lighthouse.  Look  again." 

Ginger  calmly  reaffirmed,  "There  are  two  lights — one  is  a  bit  higher 
than  the  other." 

"If  there  are  two  lights,  look  at  the  lower  one  and  see  if  it  is  flashing," 
I  insisted. 

She  concentrated  for  several  minutes  and  then  announced,  "The  lower 
light  flashes,  but  the  one  above  is  steady." 

"It’s  no  use,"  I  groaned;  "we’ve  both  gone  crazy.  It's  too  hazy  to  see 
anyway." 

Ginger  sat  quietly  watching  the  lights.  The  sky  seemed  to  clear  a  bit, 


“The  Damn  Fools!”  67 

nd  she  turned  to  me  excitedly.  "Why,  of  course;  the  upper  light  is  the 
noon." 

"Yes,  but  the  lower  light,  can  you  see  that?"  I  again  demanded. 

"That's  the  lighthouse;  I  can  see  it  flashing." 

We  cheered  feebly.  I  dropped  into  the  cockpit  beside  Ginger.  Off  in  the 
iarkness  I  could  now  see  the  reassuring  flash  of  Cape  Falso  light.  I 
propped  my  head  on  my  hands  to  keep  my  face  out  of  the  water,  and  we 
both  went  sound  asleep. 

We  were  awakened  by  the  heat  of  the  sun  beating  on  our  unprotected 
faces.  Greatly  refreshed  by  our  sleep,  we  gazed  hungrily  at  the  blue-grey 
mountains  that  were  Baja  California.  Never  had  a  sight  been  so  welcome. 
Ginger  said  she  had  awakened  for  a  few  minutes  at  sunrise  and  had  watched 
the  sun  tint  the  mountains  with  delicate  pastels  of  rose,  amethystine,  and 
opal. 

Not  a  breath  of  wind  disturbed  the  turquoise  mirror  of  the  sea  as  we 
reached  over  the  side  and  splashed  cool  water  on  our  faces.  Then  we  began 
to  paddle  in  the  direction  of  Cape  Falso.  In  the  late  forenoon  the  outline 
of  Cape  San  Lucas  became  clearly  visible.  Between  the  two  we  could  see 
little  sandy  beaches  with  the  smallest  of  wavelets  breaking  on  their  shores. 
I  wanted  to  pick  out  a  nice  soft  beach,  land,  distil  some  water — and  sleep 
for  a  week;  but  Ginger  wouldn't  hear  of  it.  She  said  she  had  a  "hunch," 
and  that  she  wanted  to  go  on  to  the  village  of  San  Lucas. 

I  didn't  like  the  idea  for  various  reasons.  The  paramount  objection  was 
that  we  were  a  mess!  A  sorrier-looking  pair  of  adventurers  never  turned 
up  anywhere.  It  wasn't  my  idea  to  be  seen  encrusted  with  salt,  bleary- 
eyed,  burnt  and  blistered  by  the  wind  and  sun,  and  with  a  four-days-old 
beard.  We  were  supposed  to  be  doing  this  for  fun,  and  it  outraged  my 
vanity  to  be  seen  looking  like  a  castaway.  The  fact  that  this  trip  was  not 
always  unalloyed  romance  was  my  secret  and  I  had  no  intention  of  sharing 
it  with  the  villagers  and  officials  of  San  Lucas. 

Ginger,  as  usual,  won  the  argument.  I  paddled  shoreward,  while  she 
got  into  her  shore  clothes.  Then  she  took  the  paddle,  while  I  made  some 
improvements  on  myself.  Our  mouths  were  swollen  and  our  tongues  felt 
like  fur-covered  balls,  but  Ginger  nevertheless  had  the  ill  grace  to  laugh 
as  I  attempted  to  shave  myself  in  the  bobbing  canoe  with  nothing  but  salt 
water  and  a  dull  razor.  Finally  the  job  was  done,  and  I  got  into  my  shore 
clothes  just  as  we  rounded  the  beautiful  rock  with  its  famous  archway,  that 
forms  the  west  point  of  San  Lucas  Bay.  The  Cape  ends  in  a  great  sand¬ 
stone  slab,  set  on  edge,  that  rises  sheer  from  the  ocean.  Twin  pinnacles  of 
rock,  called  Los  Frailes,  rise  several  hundred  feet  into  the  air  from  this 
bastion.  They  have  been  eroded  by  the  elements  until  they  are  needle- 
fine,  and  form  an  archway  of  surpassing  beauty  and  impressiveness. 

Then  a  sight  greeted  us  that  thrilled  us  clear  to  our  toes.  Lying  in  the 
bay  was  a  great  black  yacht,  flying  the  Stars  and  Stripes.  The  big  ship  was 


68  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

famous  in  Pacific  waters,  where  her  owner,  an  American  multi-millionaire, 
spends  most  of  his  time.  We  were  well  acquainted  with  the  much  publicized 
name  painted  on  the  bow. 

'‘Dan,  Dan,  aren’t  you  glad  we  came,  now!  Just  think!  On  that  boat 
there’s  white  bread — butter — cheese — coffee  with  cream  in  it,  and - ” 

“And  ham,’’  I  broke  in,  “and  cigarettes,  and  water,  and  clean  white 
towels  and  shaving  soap — and  nice,  clean,  scrubbed  Americans  to  talk  to. 
Wheel’’ 

“They’re  putting  off  a  boat,  Dan,’’  she  cried. 

A  shore  launch,  her  brightwork  glistening  in  the  sun,  was  coming  to¬ 
wards  us.  In  it  were  white-coated  sailors,  and  several  figures  in  tropical 
“whites’’  and  Panama  hats  lounged  in  the  stern.  We  waited  expectantly 
for  them  to  hail  us.  All  the  way  down  the  coast  wherever  we  had  landed, 
the  Mexican  people  had  been  most  kind  to  us.  News  of  our  coming  had 
generally  preceded  us,  and  we  were  welcomed  with  open  arms.  Now  our 
own  people  were  coming  to  meet  us.  As  the  launch  came  abreast  of  the 
canoe,  most  of  its  occupants  rose  and  peered  at  us  curiously.  Instead  of  the 
anticipated  greeting,  this  is  what  we  heard:  “I  wonder  who  they  are?’’ 
“You  know,  the  couple  sailing  down  the  coast  to  Panama.’’  Then  the 
lounging  figure  in  the  stern — whose  face,  name,  and  product  is  familiar  to 
millions  of  his  fellow-Americans — turned  and  surveyed  us  disdainfully. 
“The  damned  fools!”  he  snapped  .  .  .  and  the  launch  sped  on. 

Ginger  and  I  sat  and  looked  at  each  other  in  shocked  silence.  Gone  was 
all  our  elation.  I  thought  to  myself,  “Why,  damn  him!  An  ignorant  Indian 
wouldn’t  have  the  ill  grace  to  do  anything  so  crude — and  most  certainly 
not  to  a  woman.  I’d  like  to  wring  his  neck.”  I  remembered  the  Indio ,  and 
his  pitiful  gift  of  that  one  poor  little  egg!  I  swallowed  to  choke  down  my 
wrath. 

“Never  mind,”  said  Ginger  calmly.  “I’ll  bet  we’re  having  a  lot  more 
fun  than  he  is.” 

Then  we  saw  another  boat  in  the  harbour  flying  the  American  flag.  A 
very  unpretentious  boat  compared  to  the  great  sea-going  yacht.  By  now, 
however,  I  didn't  think  I  cared  to  see  any  more  Americans;  I'd  take  In¬ 
dians,  thank  you — and  like  it!  But  just  then  a  little  skiff  with  an  outboard 
motor,  carrying  two  men  and  a  woman,  came  towards  us.  They  circled 
round  us,  getting  closer  in,  all  the  while  staring  curiously.  We  could 
hardly  blame  them  for  that,  for  we  were  sorry-looking  sights,  in  spite  of 
all  our  efforts  to  fix  ourselves  up.  They  came  closer,  and  a  man  hailed  us. 
“Are  you — do  you  speak  English?” 

“Sure,”  I  croaked.  “We’re  from  California.” 

“So  are  we,”  he  replied.  “But  what  are  you  doing  here  in  a  little  boat 
like  that?” 

“We  just  came  down  the  coast,”  I  answered. 


69 


“  The  Damn  Fools V* 

“Oh,  yes.  Why,  I  know  who  you  are!  We’ve  been  hearing  about 
you  .  .  ." 

“Look  as  though  you'd  been  having  some  rough  weather,"  the  other 
man  said. 

“A  storm,"  I  replied.  “We're  ready  to  enter  port  now." 

“We'll  follow  you  in,"  said  the  man  who  had  spoken  first.  “But  you 
look  .  .  .  isn’t  there  something  we  can  do  for  you?" 

“If  you  have  any  water  aboard  your  boat,"  I  replied  eagerly.  “We 
sure  could — well,  we  haven't  had  any  for  two  days." 

We  must  have  looked  like  apparitions,  for  they  just  stared  at  us  for  a 
few  moments.  “Better  stop  by  our  boat,"  said  the  first  man;  and  the  skiff 
started  off. 

We  stopped  just  long  enough  to  wet  our  parched  throats  so  that  we 
could  at  least  talk  to  the  port  officials.  Then  we  went  ashore  to  make  the 
necessary  official  entry  before  doing  anything  else.  As  the  canoe  grounded, 
the  Port  Captain  stepped  forward  to  help  Ginger  on  to  the  beach.  She  had 
crawled  forward  along  the  bow  on  her  hands  and  knees  to  avoid  wetting 
her  shoes.  He  extended  his  hand;  she  stepped  down  on  the  sand,  and  im¬ 
mediately  collapsed  in  the  Captain’s  arms.  He  stood  there  holding  her 
clumsily,  his  face  a  study  in  perplexity.  What  did  one  do  with  a  “Gringa" 
who  fainted?  Nothing  in  his  book  of  rules  had  prepared  him  for  such  a 
contingency. 

“That’s  all  right,"  I  said.  “Just  let  her  rest  on  the  sand  a  moment. 
We’re  a  little  ..."  I  just  managed  to  keep  on  my  own  feet,  but  I  was 
doubtful  how  long  I  could  remain  upright.  In  a  few  minutes  Ginger  came 
to,  and  we  were  able  to  continue  on  to  the  Captain’s  office  under  our  own 
power. 

After  officially  entering  port,  we  left  for  the  little  yacht  Valkyrien  (out 
of  San  Pedro,  California),  where  we  had  been  invited  to  spend  a  few  days. 
Our  kind  hostess  was  a  trained  nurse,  and  after  giving  us  a  half  glass  of 
lemonade  and  a  half  sandwich  apiece,  she  led  us  to  a  bunk  where  we  turned 
:n  for  a  short  but  sound  sleep.  At  sundown  she  brought  us  more  lemonade. 
Then  we  went  out  to  sit  on  deck.  Emil,  our  host,  announced  that  the  Port 
Captain  had  invited  all  of  us  to  come  ashore  for  dinner. 

On  the  beach  all  San  Lucas  had  assembled  to  greet  us.  Big  fires  blazed; 
white  tablecloths  were  spread  on  the  sand,  where  a  real  Baja  California 
feast  awaited  our  arrival.  The  natives  had  prepared  broiled  quail  seasoned 
with  a  sauce  of  wine,  lemon  juice,  olive  oil,  and  chillis.  This  is  a  dish  to 
intrigue  the  palate  of  a  gourmet.  There  were  many  varieties  of  vegetables 
from  the  village  garden — big,  red,  luscious  tomatoes;  squashes,  melons, 
potatoes,  and  different  kinds  of  baked  roots.  A  huge  platter  of  potato  salad 
had  been  contributed  by  the  Valkyrien — this  and  many  other  typical  Amer¬ 
ican  dishes  that  we  had  not  even  thought  of  in  months. 

The  soft  strumming  of  guitars,  the  sounds  of  laughter  and  conversation 


70  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

went  on  round  us  as  we  sat  munching  the  crisp  quail  and  other  savory 
dishes.  Silhouetted  against  the  dancing  firelight  along  the  white  beach 
were  little  groups  of  men  and  women.  Overhead  was  the  great  luminous 
moon  of  the  tropics.  Across  the  harbour  where  the  great  yacht  lay,  outlined 
in  shining  pin-pricks  of  light,  we  could  hear  the  faint  moaning  of  a  saxo¬ 
phone.  Ginger  smiled  at  me;  we  were  having  a  party,  too. 

It  was  such  a  big  fiesta  that  I  finally  asked  the  manager  of  a  small  fish 
cannery  what  other  event,  besides  our  arrival,  was  being  celebrated. 
“Nothing,”  he  beamed;  “no  reason  except  that  my  people  and  I,  and  our 
good  friends  aboard  the  Valkyrien ,  thought  you  might  enjoy  a  little  fiesta. 
So  have  a  good  time,  enjoy  yourselves,  buen  amigos .” 

We  spent  the  night  aboard  the  Valkyrien ,  and  the  next  afternoon  began 
repairs  on  the  canoe.  All  our  gear  was  so  soggy  and  wet  that  we  wondered 
how  we  had  escaped  foundering  under  the  added  weight.  The  foreman  of 
the  cannery  loaned  us  two  carpenters  to  help  with  the  mast  and  rigging. 
With  their  assistance  the  Vagabunda  was  quickly  repaired. 

On  the  third  day  we  were  ready  to  resume  our  voyage  round  the  tip 
of  Lower  California  and  into  the  Gulf  of  California  towards  La  Paz.  Our 
friends  aboard  the  Valkyrien  offered  us  canned  goods,  which  we  could  not 
take  because  of  their  weight.  But  we  did  gratefully  accept  some  American 
white  navy  beans  and  rice.  We  pulled  out  of  San  Lucas  with  our  grub 
box  and  canteens  full. 

Waving  a  final  farewell,  we  turned  and  headed  towards  the  great  Sea  of 
Cortez,  the  Gulf  of  California. 


Chapter  Ten 


FOUR  TO  ONE  AGAINST  US 

The  imaginary  line  of  the  tropic  of  Cancer  crosses  the  tip  of  Baja  Cali¬ 
fornia  just  above  the  Cape.  We  noticed  a  decided  change  in  the  vegeta¬ 
tion  after  crossing  it.  On  the  gulf  side  of  the  peninsula  there  were  many 
small  green  coves  studded  with  palm  trees.  These  were  in  marked  con¬ 
trast  to  the  arid,  barren,  cactus-covered  arroyos  on  the  seaward  side.  There 
was  plenty  of  fresh  water,  the  seas  were  calm,  and  a  safe  landing  could 
be  made  almost  anywhere.  We  took  our  time  and  enjoyed  the  first  easy 
sailing  we  had  had  on  the  trip. 

One  thing  that  did  cause  us  considerable  concern,  however,  was  the 
number  of  great  manta  rays.  They  are  a  type  of  giant  ray  fish  similar  to 
the  common  sting  ray  found  along  the  coasts  of  the  United  States.  Some 
of  them  are  at  least  twenty  feet  wide.  The  Spanish  name  “manta"  means 
“blanket."  These  huge  “blanket"  fish  would  swim  with  just  the  tips  of 
their  flippers  showing  above  the  water,  and  they  sometimes  came  so  close 
to  the  canoe  that  they  startled  us.  Fortunately  they  appeared  rather  slug¬ 
gish  and  indifferent  to  us  and  we  soon  got  used  to  them. 

Being  constitutionally  unable  to  enjoy  tranquillity  for  any  length  of  time, 
I  said  to  Ginger  on  the  third  day  of  our  trip  round  the  Cape,  “Don’t  you 
think  it  would  be  fun  to  harpoon  one  of  these  babies  and  let  him  take  us 
for  a  ride?" 

“It  would  sound  better  if  we  knew  just  what  one  of  them  would  do," 
she  demurred. 

“We  can  easily  find  out." 

I  rigged  the  heavy  anchor  line  to  the  harpoon  and  waited  patiently  for 
a  giant  ray  to  come  within  striking  distance  of  where  I  stood  in  the  bow. 
Ginger  was  paddling  from  the  stern.  Several  small  rays  passed  unmolested 
— we  wanted  a  big  one.  Soon  a  great  dark  shape  glided  in  front  of  the 
canoe  and  I  lunged  the  harpoon  into  tons  of  fish.  The  ray,  taken  by  sur¬ 
prise,  gave  a  spurt  of  speed,  the  harpoon  line  grew  taut  as  I  snubbed  it 
to  the  figurehead  on  the  bow.  Our  joy  ride  was  short  lived,  for  the  line 
soon  grew  slack.  The  ray  had  turned  and  was  coming  directly  towards  us. 
Almost  before  we  knew  it,  he  was  underneath  the  canoe  and  beating  it 
savagely  with  his  powerful  flippers.  We  bounced  round  like  a  cork  in  a 
washing  machine.  The  spray  became  so  thick  that  we  could  see  nothing, 
and  besides  it  took  all  our  efforts  not  to  be  thrown  into  the  water.  I  took 


72  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

the  Luger  and  Ginger  the  killing  lance  and  we  prepared  to  dispatch  the 
ray  without  further  ado.  The  ray  had  other  plans.  Nothing  that  we  did 
made  the  slightest  impression  on  his  thick  hide — he  just  kept  beating  the 
canoe  as  though  it  were  a  drum.  Each  time  his  great  flippers  smacked  it 
I  could  hear  the  splintering  of  its  frail  siding.  I  tried  to  shove  him  out  from 
under  the  canoe  with  the  paddle  but  I  might  as  well  have  saved  my  strength. 
Then,  with  a  splash  and  a  surge  that  almost  turned  the  canoe  on  its  beam 
end,  the  ray  changed  his  tactics  and  started  off  up  the  gulf.  We  skimmed 
the  water  at  a  rate  of  speed  that  threw  a  spray  ten  feet  on  each  side  of  us. 

We  took  positions  in  the  stern  and  sat  back  to  enjoy  the  free  ride,  but 
shortly,  instead  of  continuing  up  the  gulf  the  ray  turned  and  headed  for 
the  ocean.  “If  we  aren’t  going  to  China  on  this  cruise,  we’d  better  stop 
him,’’  said  Ginger.  “I  hope  you're  satisfied — now  that  you  know  what  a 
manta  ray  will  do." 

I  crept  along  the  bow  to  have  another  try  at  dispatching  the  ray,  and 
began  pulling  in  the  harpoon  line  and  passing  it  back  to  Ginger  so  that 
she  could  lend  a  hand  in  the  tugging.  As  the  ray  came  into  view  we  both 
began  firing.  The  line  grew  slack  again  and  we  knew  that  he  had  turned. 
We  were  ready  to  meet  his  rush  this  time,  and  managed  several  thrusts 
with  the  lance  and  a  couple  of  shots  in  the  head. 

At  last  we  knew  we  had  succeeded,  for  the  great  shape  began  to  sink, 
and  with  it  the  canoe,  bow  end  first.  I  grabbed  the  line  and  carried  it  to 
the  stern  to  balance  the  weight.  The  canoe  began  to  ride  so  low  that  I 
prepared  to  cut  the  line  and  lose  it  and  the  indispensable  harpoon.  This 
would  have  been  a  serious  loss,  since  it  was  one  of  our  most  important  tools 
for  securing  food.  Suddenly  the  canoe  bobbed  up  as  though  the  line  had 
parted  under  the  strain  or  the  harpoon  had  pulled  out.  We  were  relieved 
to  find  that  the  latter  had  happened. 

Ginger  sat  down  on  deck  and  mopped  her  forehead.  “How  about  find¬ 
ing  another  manta  to  tow  us  back  to  shore?’’  I  asked. 

“No,  thanks!’’  she  answered.  “We’ve  had  enough  for  today.  It  might 
be  a  good  idea,  though,  to  go  ashore  and  see  what  he  did  to  the  canoe. 
From  the  sound  of  the  splintering,  we’ll  probably  have  enough  to  keep 
us  busy  for  awhile." 

We  swung  the  canoe  round  and  started  for  shore.  The  tussle  with  the 
ray  had  taken  us  out  about  two  miles,  and  for  the  first  time  we  had  an 
opportunity  to  see  the  tip  of  Baja  California.  It  is  a  magnificent  and  im¬ 
pressive  sight.  Behind  the  bold  rocky  headland  of  the  Cape  rise  purple 
peaks,  and  beyond  lie  the  mysterious  mountains  of  Triunfo,  sprawled 
round  the  base  of  a  great  peak  that  stands  in  their  midst  like  a  giant’s 
thumb.  Nature  here  has  accomplished  what  man  has  failed  to  do — she  has 
gained  a  foothold.  Deep  canyons  of  vivid  green  gash  the  mountains’  other¬ 
wise  barren  and  precipitous  slopes.  The  sight  was  one  to  excite  the  imagi¬ 
nation,  and  we  found  ourselves  putting  more  force  behind  our  paddle 


73 


Four  to  One  Against  Us 

strokes  as  we  glided  towards  the  grey  headland.  We  landed  in  a  beautiful 
bay  called  Los  Frailles,  and  proceeded  at  once  to  examine  the  canoe.  It 
had  received  a  marcel;  its  sides  were  wavy  where  the  siding  had  caved  in 
between  the  ribs.  But  the  damage  was  not  so  severe  as  we  feared,  and 
since  the  mahogany  was  not  completely  broken,  we  decided  not  to  make 
repairs  at  this  time. 

I  was  tired  of  our  exclusive  fish  diet,  and  wanted  to  go  hunting  for  deer 
in  the  green,  palm-lined  canyon  that  opened  up  just  back  of  the  beach. 
Here  was  fresh  water  and  the  ground  was  carpeted  with  grass  and  flowers. 
Small  game  was  everywhere  and  coveys  of  quail  and  turtle  doves  broke 
cover  at  my  passing.  I  found  no  deer,  but  saw  many  tracks.  The  canyon 
was  a  decided  contrast  to  the  arid,  inhospitable  coast  we  had  left  behind. 

Ginger  wasn't  interested  in  hunting,  because  she  had  read  glowing  ac¬ 
counts  of  the  fishing  in  these  waters,  so  I  left  her  trying  her  luck  in  a 
fisherman’s  paradise.  The  waters  were  teeming  with  beautiful  and  bril¬ 
liantly  coloured  fish  of  every  variety  and  size.  They  could  easily  be  seen 
swimming  over  the  white  sands. 

The  next  day  we  paddled  leisurely  along  the  shore,  stopping  to  examine 
each  interesting  cove.  We  could  land  anywhere.  This  is  certainly  the 
canoeist's  and  fisherman's  Valhalla;  it  has  everything.  Fish  of  all  kinds 
leapt  and  glided  by  us.  Giant  rays  swam  close  to  the  boat  as  though 
daring  us  to  harpoon  them.  Ginger  shivered  every  time  1  even  motioned 
towards  one. 

In  many  canyons  we  could  see  thatched  native  huts  set  in  among  the 
palms.  The  highly  mineralized  formations  of  many  of  the  canyon  walls 
added  colourful  background. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  we  found  a  beautiful  camp  in  Muertos  Bay,  where 
an  old  pier  extended  out  a  little  distance  from  shore.  The  beach  was  strewn 
with  timbers,  old  iron,  and  other  evidences  of  the  time  when  silver  from 
the  mines  of  Triunfo  was  shipped  from  this  port. 

After  setting  up  camp,  we  hiked  up  the  canyon  which  lay  behind  the 
beach  and  came  to  an  old  Spanish  ranch  house.  It  seemed  to  be  deserted 
but  as  we  drew  nearer  an  old  man  came  to  meet  us.  He  apologized  for  not 
being  able  to  ask  us  to  eat  with  him,  but  he  had  no  food,  he  said.  His 
cattle  had  died  during  the  dry  years  and  now  he  had  nothing  to  sell. 
Though  the  ground  was  fertile  and  there  was  evidence  of  water,  he  had 
no  garden.  Yes,  the  waters  were  full  of  fish,  he  agreed,  but  his  sons  could 
seldom  catch  edible  fish — only  sharks.  The  deer  were  too  wild,  one  could 
not  get  close  enough  to  shoot.  This  was  odd,  for  to  us  they  seemed  to  be 
starving  in  a  land  of  plenty. 

I  returned  to  our  camp  and  got  two  of  our  homemade  jigs  (fishhooks 
with  bone  shanks),  and  on  the  way  back  to  the  old  man  met  his  son  arriving 
home  empty-handed.  I  instructed  him  in  the  use  of  the  jig  and  took  him 
fishing  in  our  canoe.  We  soon  had  a  large  catch  of  dolphin,  bonito,  and 


74  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

mackerel.  Then  I  suggested  that  we  go  hunting.  Ginger,  the  young  Mexi¬ 
can  boy,  and  I  set  off  up  the  canyon,  and  an  hour  later  returned  with  a 
good-sized  buck.  The  old  man  thanked  us  fervently. 

These  people  were  cattle  raisers,  and,  like  our  one-crop  farmers  at  home, 
felt  that  with  the  failure  of  their  efforts  in  this  direction,  nothing  remained 
but  to  starve.  Accustomed  as  we  had  become  to  rustling  up  a  meal  wherever 
we  found  ourselves,  this  was  an  amazing  spectacle:  that  men  could  so 
quickly  lose  their  ingenuity,  once  they  became  wedded  to  the  idea  that  life 
itself  depended  upon  having  something  to  sell  to  the  other  fellow. 

“I'd  certainly  like  to  have  that  place,"  I  said  to  Ginger  as  we  trudged 
back  to  camp.  “There's  a  gold  mine  there  for  a  young,  energetic  man.  It 
would  make  the  best  headquarters  for  fishermen  on  the  Pacific.  Comfortable 
cabins  could  be  built  at  low  cost.  Fruits  and  vegetables  could  be  easily 
grown.  Horses  could  be  bought  cheaply  and  furnished  for  trips  inland. 
Also  small  boats  with  outboard  motors.  The  sun  shines  every  day,  the 
climate  is  perfect,  and  there  are  no  pests.  Chambers  of  Commerce  from 
one  end  of  California  to  the  other  would  be  ravished  by  the  white  beach. 
And  the  water  is  always  just  right  for  swimming." 

Ginger  laughed  at  my  enthusiasm,  but  agreed  that  some  day  perhaps, 
when  we  were  tired  of  roaming,  we  might  come  back  and  do  that  very 
thing. 

We  put  out  of  Muertos  Bay  the  next  morning  soon  after  sunrise,  and 
by  ten  o'clock  were  sailing  between  Ceralbo  Island  and  the  mainland.  We 
had  a  treasure  location  for  Ceralbo.  “The  third  cove  from  the  end,"  read 
our  little  notebook. 

The  island  looked  extremely  interesting.  Sixteen  miles  long  and  about 
four  miles  wide,  its  steep  volcanic  peaks  reared  over  two  thousand  feet  in 
the  air.  We  skirted  its  shores  looking  for  our  pirate  cove,  passed  bluff 
headlands  and  shingle  beaches.  Then  the  third  little  bay  opened  before  us, 
with  a  fine  sand  beach  backed  by  a  dense  growth  of  trees. 

After  lunch,  armed  with  our  treasure  map  and  guns,  we  started  up  the 
canyon,  which  was  filled  to  its  mouth  with  great  boulders  and  scrubby 
brush.  A  quarter  of  a  mile  brought  us  to  where  the  canyon  narrowed  down. 
Here  the  trees  were  larger,  and  on  one  of  them  we  saw  peculiar  markings 
that  must  have  been  cut  there  many  years  ago.  They  were  in  the  form  of  a 
double  cross  and  had  two  perpendicular  lines  on  the  side.  Our  map  indi¬ 
cated  that  the  gold  was  buried  at  the  northeast  corner  of  a  large  rectangular 
boulder  set  on  the  face  of  the  north  side  of  the  cliff.  Examining  trees  nearby, 
we  found  another  one  marked  with  a  perpendicular  line  and  three  lines 
cut  at  an  angle  across  it,  and  a  single  line  standing  alone.  Eagerly  we  began 
looking  at  other  trees  and  finally  found  a  third  one  with  a  perpendicular 
line  crossed  by  four  lines  at  an  angle,  and  three  slanting  lines  cut  beside  it. 
We  lined  up  the  three  trees  and  found  that  they  formed  a  perfect  triangle. 
A  re-examination  showed  that  the  markings  pointed  north  and  indicated 


Four  to  One  Against  Us  77 

a  group  of  huge  boulders.  “No  one  would  bury  anything  in  this  boulder 
patch, "  I  said. 

“Let's  look  anyway,"  Ginger  suggested. 

We  started  peering  round  and  beneath  the  boulders.  Then  Ginger 
called  excitedly,  “Here's  another  marking."  It  was  cut  deep  in  the  stone 
and  looked  very  old — a  single  slanting  cross  with  two  straight  lines  beside 
it. 

“X  marks  the  spot,  but  there  is  no  way  for  us  to  dig  under  those  boul¬ 
ders,"  I  said. 

“Well,  we  know  where  it  is  now,  so  let's  go  on  up  the  canyon  and  see 
what  else  we  can  find." 

We  soon  came  upon  an  old,  deep-worn  trail  that  had  not  been  used  in 
many  years.  In  some  places  it  was  completely  washed  away,  and  in  others 
covered  with  landslides,  but  it  led  eventually  to  the  head  of  the  canyon. 
Tracks  indicated  that  goats  were  now  the  only  users  of  the  trail.  From  the 
head  of  the  canyon  we  followed  a  zigzag  path  up  the  mountain,  and  at  last 
stood  on  top  of  the  ridge.  From  where  we  were  the  trail  branched  off  in 
two  directions,  north  and  south.  We  chose  the  northern  route  and  followed 
it  for  a  mile  to  where  it  led  out  on  a  big  promontory  which  commanded  a 
magnificent  view  of  the  waters  below. 

“Here’s  where  the  pirates  camped!"  I  exclaimed.  “See  how  the  boulders 
are  laid  in  rows.  They  must  have  formed  the  base  of  a  building  at  least 
fifty  feet  square."  The  ground  around  was  covered  with  broken  sea  shells 
for  a  considerable  distance. 

Now  the  trail  led  down  the  hill  and  evidently  into  the  canyon  that  entered 
the  next  bay  north  of  our  camp.  We  decided  to  investigate  that  canyon 
tomorrow. 

We  returned  to  the  trees  and  made  a  rough  sketch  map  of  the  place,  then 
hiked  back  to  camp  in  time  for  a  swim  before  dark. 

The  next  morning  we  sailed  into  the  next  bay  and  made  camp.  This 
canyon  was  wider  and  more  heavily  wooded  than  the  other.  On  a  little 
mesa  to  one  side  we  found  the  remains  of  a  considerable  settlement.  The 
adobe  dwellings  had  washed  down  into  piles  of  dried  mud,  but  there  was 
still  a  well-constructed  masonry  well,  which  was  dry. 

We  followed  a  once  well-used  trail  inland.  It  wound  high  up  into  the 
canyon  and  to  another  mesa  on  which  stood  the  ruins  of  what  appeared  to 
be  an  ancient  fortification.  Here  the  ground  was  also  covered  with  shells. 
There  were  several  deep  holes  round  the  old  wall  where  some  one  had 
been  digging.  A  corner  of  the  thick  wall  had  been  taken  down  and  now  a 
huge  pit  yawned  there. 

Dreaming  about  buried  treasure  and  digging  for  it  are  two  very  different 
things.  While  the  charts  give  implicit  directions  as  to  how  to  find  the 
landmarks,  the  landmarks,  if  found,  are  seldom  conclusive  evidence  that 
the  treasure  is  there.  Assuming  the  landmarks  are  there,  then  the  only 


78  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

thing  that  remains  to  be  settled  is  just  where  to  dig — you  generally  have 
a  choice  of  about  an  acre.  I  personally  have  always  entertained  a  doubt  as 
to  why  any  one  who  knew  the  location  of  a  hoard  would  make  duplicate 
maps  and  pass  them  round.  Probably  the  way  to  have  the  most  fun  would 
be  to  get  a  good  metal  locator,  and  each  time  the  indicator  gives  the  signal 
— dig.  It  may  be  that  only  a  rusty  shovel  or  a  bit  of  anchor  chain  will  come 
to  light,  but  you  will  have  had  the  fun  of  discovering  something  hidden — 
as  well  as  blisters  on  your  hands. 

We  returned  to  camp  for  a  closer  inspection  of  the  beach.  Fastened  to  a 
large  rock  on  the  north  side  of  the  bay,  we  found  an  old  rusted  iron  ring, 
such  as  is  used  in  mooring  ships.  There  is  small  doubt  but  that  the  buc¬ 
caneers  made  good  use  of  these  little-known  places.  By  our  campfire  that 
night,  we  could  almost  see  them  swaggering  by,  on  mischief  bent. 

The  farther  we  travelled  from  the  Cape,  the  sparser  the  vegetation  be¬ 
came,  indicating  a  lessening  of  rainfall.  It  was  still  more  luxuriant  than 
on  the  seaward  side,  but  by  no  means  as  lush  as  it  had  been  nearer  the 
Cape.  We  were  drawing  near  the  principal  seaport  and  capital  of  the  lower 
part  of  Baja  California,  La  Paz. 

We  approached  La  Paz  through  a  narrow  channel,  flanked  on  one  side 
by  bare,  brown,  gutted-looking  hills  with  no  sign  of  human  habitation; 
then  we  saw  the  white  beach  where  La  Paz  lies.  We  pulled  up  at  a  little 
pier  jutting  out  from  a  low  masonry  wall  built  long  ago  by  the  Spaniards. 

A  glum,  sullen-looking  crowd  of  people  awaited  us.  We  were  so  used 
to  the  gay  welcoming  committees  that  usually  met  the  Vagabunda  that  we 
looked  at  each  other  in  astonishment. 

“What  on  earth  do  you  suppose  is  the  matter?”  Ginger  asked. 

We  would  soon  find  out,  for  now  the  Port  Captain  was  coming  towards 
us.  His  face  wore  a  sour  expression  as  he  shouldered  his  way  unceremoni¬ 
ously  through  the  crowd.  Gruffly,  and  with  a  complete  absence  of  all  the 
usual  courtesies,  he  ordered  us  to  follow  him  to  his  office.  He  led  us 
through  a  lane  of  scowling  faces,  glanced  over  our  papers  briefly,  made 
the  usual  entries  and  then  curtly  bade  us  good-bye.  Not  a  word  of  welcome 
— just  good-bye. 

“Wait  a  minute,”  I  said.  “What’s  wrong?  Why  do  all  of  you  act  as 
though  we  were  bringing  bad  news?” 

“Because  you  are  bad  news,”  he  said  savagely.  “Yes,  you  are  distinctly 
bad  news.  Why,  I  bet  fifty  pesos  myself  that  you  couldn’t  get  here.  When 
word  came  overland  that  you  were  going  to  try  to  sail  round  the  Cape,  I 
and  all  my  people  bet  four  to  one  that  you  would  never  arrive  in  La  Paz.” 

After  a  moment  I  found  my  tongue.  “With  whom  did  you  bet?” 

“The  officials  of  Magdalena,”  he  replied.  “They  were  most  anxious  to 
bet.  I  bet  with  the  Captain  of  the  Guard,  who  wanted  to  bet  one  hundred 
pesos.” 


Four  to  One  Agamst  Us  79 

"Oh,  he  did,  did  he?"  Trust  El  Capitdn  to  think  of  some  way  to  recoup 
his  poker  losses. 

Then  I  had  a  bright  idea.  Why,  I  asked  the  Port  Captain,  didn't  he  bet 
with  the  people  of  Guaymas  that  we  couldn't  cross  the  Gulf?  I  told  him 
that  I  was  sure  that  we  had  a  fair  chance,  and  perhaps  the  people  would 
jump  at  the  odds  when  they  learnt  that  we  were  attempting  to  cross  in  a 
sixteen-foot  canoe. 

His  eyes  glistened  and  he  laughed.  "My  friend,  you  have  the  good  idea. 
Welcome  to  La  Paz." 

La  Paz  is  an  altogether  charming  town,  and  we  thoroughly  enjoyed  our 
stay.  It  was  at  one  time  one  of  the  great  pearling  centres  of  the  world.  The 
famous  blue,  black,  and  green  pearls,  which  are  the  delight  of  connoisseurs, 
are  found  in  this  area.  Also,  it  was  once  the  headquarters  of  a  pirate  fleet. 
There  is  a  breeze  which  comes  up  regularly  every  afternoon,  called  "Crom¬ 
well’s  Wind."  A  famous  old-time  buccaneer  of  these  parts,  Cromwell, 
would  take  his  ships  out  in  the  Bay  of  La  Paz,  hoist  all  sail,  and  wait  for  the 
wind.  When  it  came  it  would  carry  his  ships  out  into  the  Gulf  at  a  brisk 
speed,  and  he  was  thus  able  to  overtake  and  capture  any  ships  that  were 
becalmed  offshore. 

We  spent  some  time  in  and  round  La  Paz,  studying  the  possibilities  of 
various  commercial  enterprises,  since  this  is  practically  virgin  territory. 
We  were  particularly  interested  in  ways  and  means  of  making  La  Paz  avail¬ 
able  to  tourists. 

La  Paz,  in  our  opinion,  has  a  provocative  charm  for  the  North  American 
visitor  found  in  no  other  place  in  Baja  California.  There  is  a  peculiar  blend¬ 
ing  of  the  past  and  present  that  carries  one  backward  and  forward  in  time. 
A  few  great  houses  line  its  streets,  cheek-by-jowl  with  the  adobe  huts  of 
pre-Conquest  Mexico.  Automobiles  rush  about  in  its  narrow  rutted  streets, 
while  patient  Indios  plod  in  their  wake,  their  immemorial  burdens  carried 
on  their  heads.  Mexican  and  Chinese  shopkeepers  stand  in  the  doorways 
of  their  tiny  establishments.  Slow-paced  and  leisured,  the  life  of  La  Paz 
flows  on  as  it  has  since  the  men-in-mail  raised  the  standards  of  Spain  in 
its  streets,  and  the  dark-robed  padres  converted  the  Indios  in  its  now 
ruined  mission  compound.  Trees  shade  its  streets,  flowers  brighten  its 
gardens,  coco-nut  palms  line  its  shores,  and  in  its  sheltered  harbour  fleets  of 
little  down-at-the-heel  boats  ride  quietly  at  anchor.  We  liked  La  Paz. 

One  day  we  sailed  out  into  the  harbour  and  waited  for  "Cromwell's 
Wind"  to  pick  us  up  and  carry  us  into  the  "Vermilion  Sea,"  the  Gulf  of 
California.  We  must  have  failed  to  follow  Cromwell's  course,  however, 
for  the  stiff  breeze  promptly  landed  us  on  a  mud  flat.  Small  waves  picked 
us  up  and  carried  us  a  little  distance,  only  to  smack  us  down  once  more 
upon  the  flat.  We  wondered  how  long  the  Vagabunda  s  canvas  bottom 
would  stand  the  rough  treatment,  as  we  hopped,  skipped,  and  jumped  our 
way  to  deep  water. 


80  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

That  night  we  came  to  Espiritu  Santo  Island  and  made  camp  in  a  beauti¬ 
ful  little  landlocked  harbour.  This  island,  too,  was  once  the  stronghold  of 
the  boys  who  flew  the  “Jolly  Roger." 

Next  day,  while  skirting  along  the  coast  of  the  island,  we  entered  a 
narrow  channel  between  sheer  cliffs  and  found  ourselves  in  another  hidden 
bay.  Great  iron  mooring  rings  were  fastened  to  the  rocks.  In  the  canyon 
back  of  the  beach  we  came  to  a  trail  about  ten  feet  wide  and  followed  it  until 
we  reached  a  great  hole,  thirty  feet  square  and  forty  feet  deep.  We  could 
find  no  explanation  for  it  unless  it  had  been  made  by  some  enthusiastic 
treasure  seeker.  We  kept  on  up  the  canyon  and  came  at  last  to  a  great 
cave  approximately  one  hundred  feet  long,  twenty  feet  wide,  and  thirty 
feet  high.  At  its  mouth  the  ground  was  covered  with  shells  and  charcoal. 
Inside  were  many  evidences  of  habitation,  some  ancient  and  some  modern. 
There  were  broken  arrow  heads  and  bits  of  flint  that  may  have  been  tools, 
and  a  very  large,  ancient,  rusted  padlock.  At  the  back  of  the  cave  was  a 
deep  hole.  From  this  cave  the  trail  led  on  for  about  two  miles  up  the  ridge 
to  the  top  of  the  island,  then  down  an  incline  to  the  edge  of  a  perpendicular 
cliff.  On  the  ridge  we  found  large  stone  mounds  and  the  ground  was  thickly 
strewn  with  shells.  Further  north  we  came  to  a  dry  lake.  A  heavy  stone 
wall  ran  along  one  side  of  its  shore  and  the  shore  line  was  fringed  with 
dead  trees  and  many  large  stumps.  On  the  west  side  we  found  the  ruin  of 
a  six-cornered  building.  The  trail  over  which  we  had  come  was  apparently 
the  only  approach  to  this  lake,  for  sheer  cliffs  bounded  it  in  other  directions. 
It  was  a  site  that  a  corporal's  guard  could  hold  against  an  army. 

During  our  stay  in  the  Gulf  we  made  numerous  exploratory  trips  among 
its  many  islands.  On  several  we  found  caves  blackened  by  fire,  huge  piles 
of  shells,  bits  of  pottery  and  stone  implements  made  by  prehistoric  men, 
as  well  as  evidences  of  later  habitation.  We  were  unable  to  supply  the 
answers  to  the  riddles  propounded  by  the  relics,  and  they  were  many. 
These  islands  should  prove  a  profitable  source  of  information  to  the  anthro¬ 
pologist  and  the  archaeologist. 

The  sea  near  Espiritu  Santo  was  full  of  many  varieties  of  marine  life 
which  we  had  never  seen  before.  The  most  interesting  to  us  was  a  peculiar 
little  spiked  fish  which  we  called  the  "balloon  fish."  If  it  was  poked  or 
played  with  it  would  inflate  itself  with  water  until  it  was  perfectly  round, 
and  in  this  condition  it  was  entirely  helpless.  We  tossed  one  variety,  whose 
spines  were  short,  back  and  forth  like  footballs.  Another  type,  whose  spines 
were  long  and  sharp,  we  gave  a  wide  berth. 

The  time  had  now  arrived  for  us  to  make  a  decision  as  to  the  future 
course  of  our  travels.  The  trip  so  far  had  been  difficult  and  dangerous  at 
times  for  both  of  us.  It  was  the  accepted  thing  for  a  man  to  seek  adventure 
in  dangerous  ways,  if  he  chose  to  do  so,  but  to  take  a  young  girl  along  on 
such  an  enterprise  was  to  invite  public  wrath.  I  had  often  wondered  if  it 
was  not  best  for  us  to  go  home. 


81 


Four  to  One  Against  Us 

If  our  original  plan  of  going  down  the  west  coast  of  Mexico  was  adhered 
to,  it  meant  crossing  the  Gulf  of  California.  This  is  considered  a  perilous 
undertaking  even  by  men  versed  in  the  Gulf’s  treacherous  moods  and 
equipped  with  more  suitable  sea-going  craft  than  ours.  We  had  never 
before,  voluntarily,  left  sight  of  land. 

There  was  also  the  question  of  how  much  Ginger  was  missing  the  com¬ 
forts  and  amenities  of  home.  So  one  night  I  asked  her,  “What  do  you  say — 
shall  we  continue  up  the  Gulf  to  the  Colorado  River,  and  then  go  back 
home?*' 

“What  makes  you  ask  that  question?'' 

I  gave  her  the  reasons  that  were  uppermost  in  my  mind. 

She  laughed.  “That  sounds  funny  coming  from  you.  What's  a  neck  for 
if  not  to  risk?  Besides,  I'm  having  a  good  time,  aren’t  you?” 

Apparently  the  insidious  bug  of  adventure  had  bitten  her,  as  it  had 
bitten  me  years  ago  when,  little  more  than  a  kid,  I  ran  away  from  home 
with  my  buddy  and  spent  two  years  tramping  over  Asia,  Africa,  and  the 
Mediterranean  countries  on  a  joint  capital  of  thirty  dollars. 

So  for  several  weeks  we  continued  up  the  Gulf,  cruising  among  the 
many  islands  that  line  its  mountaingirt  shores.  The  mighty  Sierra  de  la 
Giganta  (the  Mountains  of  the  Giantess)  rise  precipitously  from  the 
water's  edge — great  towering  cliffs,  harsh  eroded  valleys,  in  a  land  of 
silence,  empty  of  vegetation.  The  islands  of  the  Gulf  are  volcanic  uplifts, 
supporting  a  family  or  two  where  there  are  springs,  but  for  the  most  part, 
barren  of  all  life.  Even  the  sea  birds  avoid  these  rocks.  Great  manta  rays, 
sharks,  jewfish,  swordfish,  porpoises,  and  whales  pass  silently  to  and  fro 
in  their  endless  quest  for  food,  accompanied  by  an  occasional  pearler  or 
small  freighter  bound  for  the  gypsum  mines  of  San  Marcos,  the  copper 
mines  of  Santa  Rosalia,  or  Guaymas  on  the  mainland.  These  silent  voyagers 
only  emphasize  the  loneliness  and  emptiness  of  the  great  “Sea  of  Cortez.'' 
In  this  infinitude  of  waste  and  water,  man  and  his  works  are  but  the  sub¬ 
stance  of  shadows. 

Along  the  west  coast  of  San  Jose  Island  we  made  one  of  our  loveliest 
cruises.  The  colouring  of  the  cliffs  there  is  comparable  to  painted  canyons 
and  deserts  of  Arizona  and  New  Mexico;  in  addition,  a  turquoise  sea  pro¬ 
vides  a  mirror  of  splendid  contrasts.  Reds,  dusky  blues,  greens,  yellows, 
ochres,  whites,  and  tans  blaze  across  their  sheer  faces.  The  results  of  ancient 
disturbances  are  seen  in  the  sedimentary  deposits,  upended  and  lying  diag¬ 
onally  along  the  precipices. 

The  fish  in  these  waters  are  also  colourful.  There  are  orange,  blue,  rust, 
and  greenish-purple  starfish,  and  fan  clams,  whose  iridescent  shells  are 
fully  twenty  inches  long.  These  clams  are  called  hachas ,  meaning  ax,  by 
the  natives.  The  big  muscle  is  eaten  and  tastes  like  scallops;  the  rest  of 
the  meat,  which  is  trimmed  with  an  orange  and  black  ruffle,  is  too  rich  to 
eat  but  makes  a  delicious  soup. 


82  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

It  is  sometimes  necessary  to  use  extreme  understatements  in  order  not 
to  be  judged  a  liar.  Neither  Ginger  nor  I  have  any  desire  to  work  up  repu¬ 
tations  as  Munchausens,  yet  our  friends  look  at  us  in  unbelief  when  we 
give  a  literal  account  of  something  we  saw  or  experienced. 

One  day  while  fishing  I  saw  a  huge  mollusk  clinging  to  a  rock  in  about 
three  feet  of  water,  its  shell  wide  open.  It  looked  like  a  giant  clam  and 
might  be  good  to  eat.  I  was  using  the  sharp-pointed  killing  lance  at  the 
time,  and  thrusting  it  in  the  clam,  tried  to  cut  the  big  muscle  that  hinged 
its  shell.  The  clam  promptly  closed  upon  the  lance,  and  no  amount  of 
tugging  or  twisting  could  extricate  it,  until  darkness  forced  me  to  abandon 
the  job  for  the  time  being.  The  next  morning  I  tried  to  pry  the  clam  offits 
rock,  so  that  it  could  be  dragged  to  the  beach  and  the  lance  retrieved,  but 
I  couldn't  budge  it.  Eventually  Ginger  and  I,  tugging  and  pulling  together, 
did  extract  the  lance — but  we  didn’t  get  the  clam.  We  won't  tell  you  how 
big  that  clam  was,  but  don't  entirely  disbelieve  the  next  deep-sea  diver 
who  tells  you  of  the  risks  involved  in  stepping  in  one. 

As  the  time  drew  near  for  us  to  cross  the  Gulf,  we  became  more  appre¬ 
hensive.  There  is  an  unpredictability  about  the  Gulf  and  its  moods  which 
can  be  appreciated  only  upon  close  acquaintance.  We  began  to  understand 
more  fully  why  every  activity  along  its  coasts  is  undertaken  with  the  pro¬ 
viso — if  the  Gulf  be  willing.  We  were  told  of  tornadoes  that  sweep  up  its 
waters,  destroying  everything  before  them.  These  are  for  the  most  part 
seasonal  storms  of  short  duration  but  of  terrifying  intensity,  and  are  given 
the  name  “chubascos.”  They  spring  up  without  warning,  and  during  the 
time  of  year  in  which  they  prevail  small  boats  never  venture  far  from  land. 
Larger  boats  cancel  sailing  dates  at  the  slightest  hint  of  a  “chubasco”  in 
the  offing.  We  were  becoming  impatient — perhaps  because  we  were  afraid, 
for  the  longer  we  waited  the  more  hazardous  it  seemed. 

Finally,  on  a  day  when  everything  seemed  auspicious,  we  began  the 
hazardous  venture  of  crossing  the  Gulf  to  Guaymas  on  the  mainland,  a 
hundred  miles  away.  The  surface  of  the  water  was  a  burnished  mirror. 
In  its  tranquil  depths  we  could  see  the  white  sands  far  below  and  the  cease¬ 
less  passage  of  a  multitude  of  living  forms.  We  were  only  a  few  miles  off 
shore  when  dark  wisps  of  clouds  began  to  form  in  the  southeast.  The  air 
became  humid  and  a  small  flock  of  sea  birds  ceased  their  fishing  and  flew 
back  towards  their  rookery.  An  oppressive  feeling,  a  peculiar  nervous  ten¬ 
sion,  sent  us  hurrying  shoreward  with  the  birds,  and  not  a  moment  too 
soon,  as  a  “chubasco”  swept  up  the  Gulf,  the  Vagabunda  running  before  it. 
We  managed  to  beach  the  canoe  and  pull  it  up  on  high  ground  before  the 
full  force  of  the  storm  struck.  Mountains  of  water  propelled  by  an  eighty- 
mile  gale  roared  past  our  haven. 

This  is  without  question  one  of  the  most  terrifying  phenomena  in  nature. 
Safe  in  the  lee  of  the  island,  it  could  do  us  no  harm,  but  its  capacity  for 
destruction  left  us  breathless  and  shaking. 


Four  to  One  Against  Us  83 

Ginger  was  an  accomplished  cook  and  performed  near-miracles  in  broil- 
ing,  frying,  baking,  sauteing,  and  French  frying  fish  and  other  sea  foods. 
Considering  her  limited  resources  in  both  food  and  materials  and  her  lack 
of  knowledge  when  she  left  home,  the  results  which  she  obtained  were 
little  short  of  marvellous.  Nevertheless,  the  tough  and  leathery  tortilla 
which  of  necessity  was  our  only  breadstuff  had  become  a  trifle  monotonous. 

One  day,  as  Ginger  made  up  a  batch  of  them,  I  suggested,  “Why  don't 

you  toast  those  leathery  things?  When  they  are  cold  they  taste  like  shoe 
soles." 

“No,"  Ginger  said  positively.  “A  tortilla  is  a  tortilla,  and  if  you  do 
anything  else  to  it,  it's  not  a  tortilla.  They  are  supposed  to  be  large  and 
tough  enough  to  roll  your  food  in." 

W  e  had  been  eating  an  unrelieved  diet  of  fish,  tortillas,  and  an  occasional 
mess  of  beans  and  rice.  A  change  of  any  sort  was  desirable.  Tortillas,  which 
are  the  basic  foodstuff  throughout  Mexico,  are  made  from  unleavened 
ground  corn,  which  is  first  boiled  in  lime  or  lye  water  to  remove  the  husks 
(as  hominy  is  prepared)  and  then  pounded  and  made  into  thin  flat  cakes, 
which  are  cooked  on  hot  rocks  or  in  an  iron  skillet.  When  freshly  cooked 
they  are  quite  palatable,  but  when  a  day  or  so  old,  they  resemble  nothing 
so  much  as  a  piece  of  leather,  and  are  about  as  tough. 

As  usual,  the  tortillas  this  day  were  large  and  tough,  and  Ginger  made 
a  stack  of  them  big  enough  to  last  us  on  our  journey  across  the  Gulf.  Then, 
as  the  morning  was  fine,  we  made  a  second  attempt  to  reach  Guaymas. 
We  had  nice  sailing  all  day,  and  although  the  wind  was  light  we  made" good 
time.  By  nightfall  we  were  at  least  twenty  miles  off  shore.  We  had  a  bite  to 
eat  and  settled  down  in  the  cockpit  for  the  night.  Sailing  along  in  quiet 
waters  silvered  by  a  great  white  moon,  I  played  the  harmonica  and  Ginger 
sang. 

Our  idyll  was  rudely  interrupted  by  a  jarring  crash  that  sent  the  canoe 
careening  to  one  side.  Scrambling  on  to  the  bow,  I  found  that  we  had  run 
into  a  half-submerged  log  that  now  held  the  canoe  in  the  grip  of  its  gnarled 
branches.  I  freed  the  canoe,  but  once  on  deck  again,  I  could  distinctly  hear 
the  gurgle  of  water.  I  unzipped  the  cockpit,  pulled  out  the  dunnage  bag, 
and  wriggled  under  the  tiny  deck  to  the  bow.  Feeling  round  in  the  dark¬ 
ness,  I  found  that  a  snag  on  the  log  had  poked  a  hole  in  the  canvas  bottom. 
Water  was  coming  in  fast.  We  had  ten  minutes  at  the  most  before  the 
canoe  would  sink.  Something  must  be  done  right  now. 

I  shouted  to  Ginger,  “Throw  in  the  tortillas!" 

Without  question  she  obeyed  me.  I  grabbed  the  stack,  and  one  after 
another  placed  them  in  and  over  the  hole.  When  I  had  used  them  all  I 
wedged  the  rest  of  the  dunnage  over  the  patch.  It  was  a  gamble,  but  a  poor 
patch  was  better  than  none,  and  strange  as  it  seems  the  gluey  mass  held 
until  we  reached  the  island  we  had  left  that  morning. 

We  carried  the  canoe  up  on  the  beach,  and  while  Ginger  prepared  some 


84  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

breakfast  I  looked  at  the  damage.  The  hole  was  about  two  inches  in 
diameter.  Although  it  had  been  easy  to  place  the  tortillas  between  the 
siding  and  the  ribs  over  the  hole,  getting  them  off  was  another  matter. 
Water-soaked,  they  had  welded  together  into  a  regular  rubber  plug  which 
it  took  a  half  hour's  hard  labour  to  remove. 

Towards  evening  a  native  dugout  came  gliding  into  the  cove.  Three 
natives  beached  their  craft  and  approached  our  camp.  The  elder  was  a  man 
of  about  sixty;  the  two  younger  men  were  his  sons.  They  were  pearl 
divers,  working  their  way  along  the  islands.  When  we  told  them  that  we 
were  attempting  to  cross  the  Gulf,  and  the  circumstances  of  our  two 
failures,  the  old  man  had  a  lot  to  say.  We  were  forcing  our  luck;  we  were 
too  impatient;  we  were  demanding,  not  accepting.  He  was  a  veritable 
storehouse  of  knowledge  and  a  philosopher  as  well. 

We  told  him  also  of  our  failures  in  goat  hunting.  He  explained  that 
since  each  herd  has  a  sentinel  which  stands  upon  a  point  overlooking  the 
surrounding  country,  you  cannot  approach  the  herd  except  from  behind 
and  above  the  sentinel.  Otherwise  the  sentinel  sees  you  and  gives  the 
signal. 

He  told  us  how  to  hunt  turtles  at  night  by  paddling  quietly  along  until 
we  heard  their  breathing,  then  to  wait.  When  the  turtle  emerged  for 
another  breath  it  could  be  quickly  speared. 

His  most  interesting  information  was  in  regard  to  the  natives  of  Tiburon 
Island — the  Seris,  members  of  an  ancient  race  with  strange  powers  and 
knowledge.  We  had  heard  many  tales  of  the  place,  which  lies  near  the 
upper  end  of  the  Gulf,  and  meant  to  go  there  if  it  was  at  all  possible. 

He  talked  to  us  long  and  earnestly  about  waiting  for  the  propitious 
time  to  embark  upon  a  venture.  '‘Impatience,"  he  said,  "destroys  your 
judgment  and  defeats  your  purpose.  My  children,  wait  and  go  with  God, 
since  you  cannot  go  without  Him.  Wait  without  impatience  for  the  time 
which  is  best  for  you.  Only  men  who  seek  to  know  are  given  the  truth. 
Foolish  men  and  men  blinded  by  their  own  vanity  disbelieve  this,  but 
great  men  are  not  ashamed  to  seek  the  wisdom  and  guidance  of  forces 
greater  than  themselves.  Do  not  court  failure  by  refusing  to  listen — 
remember  that  you  are  a  creature  of  time  and  governed  by  it." 

The  Indian's  face  exuded  the  patience  and  wisdom  of  which  he  talked, 
and  his  eyes  were  infinitely  wise.  There  was  a  kind  of  goodness  about  him 
that  there  was  no  discounting.  Ginger  was  much  impressed,  both  by  the 
man  and  by  his  counsel.  When  he  rose  to  leave,  he  said  to  her,  "Remember, 
my  child,  that  you  are  young  and  pretty  now,  and  if  you  want  to,  you  can 
always  stay  that  way.  The  years  are  not  heavy  on  one  who  has  youth  in 
his  spirit  and  kindness  in  his  heart,  and  who  seeks  to  use  his  life  to  improve 
his  character." 

Long  after  he  had  gone  we  sat  round  the  campfire  and  talked  over 
what  he  had  said.  He  had  put  his  finger  on  our  besetting  sin — impatience, 


Four  to  One  Against  Us  85 

and  we  agreed  that  it  was  not  well  to  attempt  the  hazardous  crossing  a 
third  time  until  we  felt  an  inner  sense  of  certainty  as  to  the  outcome. 

The  next  day,  after  mending  the  canoe,  we  sailed  along  the  rugged 
coast,  past  Ildefonso  Island  and  on  towards  Concepcion  Point.  Near  the 
island  we  came  upon  one  of  those  strange  red  patches  of  sea  water  that 
looked  as  though  it  had  been  dyed  with  the  blood  of  the  sea  monsters  that 
swam  nearby.  The  true  explanation  is  doubtless  far  less  romantic.  We 
could  find  no  landing  for  the  canoe  at  Concepcion,  and  decided  to  unload 
only  what  we  needed  for  supper,  anchor  out  from  shore,  and  sleep  in  the 
canoe.  Early  next  morning  we  would  go  on  to  Tortuga  Island  and  from 
there  attempt  to  cross  the  Gulf. 

We  went  to  sleep  in  the  canoe  as  we  had  planned  but  were  awakened 
by  something  bumping  against  its  side.  My  first  thought  was  that  the 
anchor  line  had  parted  and  we  were  against  the  rocks,  but  this  theory  was 
dispelled  when  we  sat  up  and  found  ourselves  in  exactly  the  same  place 
where  we  had  gone  to  sleep.  Then  we  saw  the  phosphorescent  trail  of 
great  shapes  darting  round  in  the  water.  The  creatures  were  too  big  to 
be  seals.  What,  then?  I  got  out  the  harpoon,  but  decided  against  attacking 
such  huge  prey  at  night.  I  tied  one  end  of  the  anchor  line  to  the  killing 
lance,  so  that  if  necessary  we  could  spear  but  the  lance  could  be  quickly 
withdrawn.  Soon  one  of  the  creatures  darted  too  close  to  the  canoe  for 
comfort  and  I  jabbed  at  it.  They  were  huge  sharks,  and  as  we  lanced  one 
after  the  other,  more  kept  coming,  attracted  by  the  blood.  The  water  was 
a  carnage,  for  the  uninjured  turned  on  their  injured  fellows  and  tore  them 
to  pieces.  The  water  was  alive  with  them,  and  because  of  the  phosphor¬ 
escence  it  looked  like  a  fireworks  display.  For  awhile  I  thought  we  would 
be  tipped  over.  Some  tried  to  bite  the  canoe  and  succeeded  in  scratching 
off  quite  a  bit  of  paint.  We  were  glad  when  daylight  came. 

The  next  day  we  pulled  up  in  the  lee  of  Tortuga  Island  just  before  dark, 
found  no  landing,  and  again  slept  in  the  canoe. 

We  started  out  the  following  morning  in  a  green-and-gold  dawn. 
Somehow  we  felt  that  this  time  we  could  cross  the  Gulf  in  safety.  We 
sailed  and  paddled  all  day.  Sometimes  the  placid  waters  of  the  Gulf  were 
whipped  up  into  short  choppy  seas  that  wet  us  to  the  skin.  Again  the  sail 
hung  idly  in  a  dead  calm.  The  afternoon  of  the  second  day  we  sighted  the 
low-lying  mainland,  and  only  then  did  we  realize  the  strain  we  had  been 
under.  Our  feeling  was  one  of  relief  more  than  triumph,  but  we  had  suc¬ 
ceeded  in  the  almost  impossible — we  had  crossed  the  Gulf  of  California 
in  a  canoe. 


Chapter  Eleven 


MEXICO’S  UNTAMED  INDIANS 

When  we  first  discussed  our  probable  ports  of  call,  we  had  no  particular 
intention  of  going  to  Tiburon.  But  the  incessant  warnings  about  not 
going  to  Tiburon,  and  the  dire  predictions  of  what  would  happen  to  us  if  we 
did  go  there,  finally  decided  us.  Sehor  Ortiz  Rubio,  former  president  of 
Mexico,  whom  we  met  in  San  Diego,  warned  us  that  “not  even  a  Mexican 
gunboat  is  safe  near  Tiburon.”  This  statement  seemed  a  design  to  scare 
us  rather  than  a  record  of  fact.  What  could  unarmed  primitives,  no  matter 
how  savage,  do  against  steel  and  high  explosives? 

Much  has  been  written  about  the  savage  Seris  Indians,  who,  after 
centuries  of  warfare  with  the  Spanish  and  Mexican  governments,  were  at 
last  rounded  up  and  driven  from  their  homes  in  the  State  of  Sonora  to  a 
bitter  exile  on  the  bleak,  waterless  wastes  of  Tiburon.  They  are  reputed 
to  file  their  teeth  into  sharp  points;  to  be  cannibals;  to  shoot  poisoned 
arrows  from  ambush;  and  to  have  a  bitter  and  undying  enmity  towards  all 
whites.  We  were  told  tales  of  fishermen  who,  after  landing  on  the  Island, 
never  left  it.  Prospectors,  anthropologists,  archaeologists — and  particularly 
authors — are  others  who  arouse  the  Seris’  ire.  It  is  said  they  have  a  temple 
of  authors’  skulls. 

To  reach  Tiburon,  we  left  Guaymas  one  morning  before  sunrise  and 
started  up  the  Gulf.  We  both  agreed  that,  irrespective  of  our  success,  the 
magnificent  scenery  along  the  coast  was  well  worth  the  trip.  Its  colours  and 
formations  were  superb.  Brilliant  Chinese-lacquer  reds  blazed  across  the 
mountains  of  Sonora;  delicate  orchid  and  mauve  were  blended  with  the 
sharper  blues  and  greens  and  the  subtly  toned  browns  and  pastel  greys  of 
the  desert.  Sunrise  and  sunset  left  us  breathless. 

Then  against  the  flaming  backdrop  of  a  Sonoran  dawn,  we  saw  the 
rugged  outline  of  Tiburon.  Indescribably  bleak,  barren  and  desolate,  it 
rose  from  the  water — an  ugly  excrescence,  sinister  and  oppressive  in  a 
world  of  sunlight. 

As  we  approached  the  island,  I  began  making  an  assortment  of  fishhooks 
to  give  to  the  Seris.  In  all  our  travels  we  found  nothing  that  coast  or  island 
natives  needed  or  prized  so  highly  as  fishhooks.  Then  Ginger  suggested 
that  we  might  troll  as  we  went  along,  and  pass  the  fish  out  to  the  Indians. 
That  seemed  a  good  idea,  so  we  put  out  the  lines.  Soon  the  cockpit  was  full 
of  fish.  Tiburon  now  lay  before  us.  It  had  an  air  of  waiting — for  death 


Mexico’s  Untamed  Indians 


87 


perhaps.  Back  from  the  beach  stood  a  few  miserable  brush  shelters.  A 
weather-beaten  dugout  was  drawn  up  on  shore.  There  was  not  an  Indian 
in  sight.  This  was  not  a  good  sign,  for  unfriendly  natives  always  keep  under 
cover  until  you  make  the  first  move. 

We  cautiously  edged  the  canoe  inshore;  our  every  sense  alert  for  the 
showers  of  poisoned  arrows  and  other  warlike  manifestations  we  had  been 
told  to  expect.  Then  in  a  clump  of  bushes  we  saw  the  black  thatched  head 
of  a  Seri,  and  could  soon  pick  out  several  others  where  they  squatted 
motionless.  I  asked  Ginger  to  hold  up  a  fish  and  make  signs  for  them  to 
come  and  get  it.  She  did  so  with  many  friendly  gestures  and  appropriate 
comments  in  Spanish.  I  doubted  if  her  motions  depicting  the  dove  of  peace 
would  be  of  any  particular  interest  to  the  Seris,  for  unquestionably  they 
were  better  acquainted  with  fish.  One  of  them  came  out  from  the  bushes 
and  began  to  shuffle  towards  the  canoe — a  dejected  figure  with  the  slouch 
of  a  whipped  dog. 

He  spoke  no  Spanish,  and  we  communicated  our  desire  that  he  take  the 
fish  by  smiles  and  gestures.  When  he  finally^  comprehended,  he  accepted 
the  fish  and  walked  stolidly  back  into  the  brush,  where  we  could  hear  a 
rapid  discussion  going  on  in  an  unfamiliar  tongue.  They  must  have  decided 
that  we  meant  no  harm,  for  in  a  few  minutes  Seris  surrounded  the  canoe, 
each  one  patiently  waiting  for  his  fish.  One  man  spoke  a  little  Spanish. 
We  told  him  who  we  were;  that  we  were  making  a  trip  up  the  Gulf,  and 
would  continue  on  our  journey  that  afternoon.  He  told  us  that  their  chief 
was  away  visiting  a  few  of  the  tribe  who  still  lived  on  the  mainland. 

Then  he  said,  “Are  you  writers — do  you  make  marks  on  paper?”  We 
promptly  disclaimed  any  such  ability.  He  gave  a  grunt  of  satisfaction.  “We 
don't  like  writers.  They  come  here  and  treat  us  as  though  we  were  strange 
beasts.  This  poor  place  is  our  home — the  only  home  that  we  have  left. 
To  be  here  at  all  is  bad  enough,  but  to  be  treated  insolently  in  one’s  home 
by  strangers — that  makes  my  people  very  angry.”  We  nodded  agreement, 
meanwhile  wondering  where  and  when  the  Seris  had  made  the  acquaint¬ 
ance  of  the  writing  fraternity. 

“Tell  us  something  about  your  people,”  I  urged.  He  nodded  agreeably, 
and  began  to  talk  in  very  poor  Spanish  which  I  translate  freely. 

“We  were  once  a  great  people — a  proud  race — who  owned  vast  fields 
of  corn  on  the  mainland.  Most  of  Sonora  was  ours.  Then  came  white  men, 
who  drove  us  from  our  fields;  and  when  we  fought  back,  more  men  came 
with  guns,  until  finally  we  were  driven  back  to  the  Gulf.  But  they  were 
still  not  content.  Eventually  they  made  us  come  to  this  poor  place.  Here 
there  is  hardly  enough  water  to  drink,  and  none  for  the  raising  of  crops. 
The  land  is  worthless,  even  if  water  could  be  had.  Our  people  have  been 
forced  for  many  years  to  live  on  fish.  Our  only  clothing  and  blankets  we 
make  from  pelicans'  skins.  We  are  bitter  against  those  who  have  done 


88  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

these  things  to  us,  for  now  we  are  doomed;  our  race  is  going  to  die.  Our 
women  will  no  longer  bear  children  to  suffer  what  we  have  suffered/* 

He  talked  on,  apparently  glad  of  a  sympathetic  white  ear  into  which  to 
pour  his  troubles.  Soon,  we  were  walking  towards  a  little  row  of  huts, 
miserable  makeshifts  built  of  brush  and  driftwood,  and  so  low  that  it  was 
impossible  for  a  man  of  average  height  to  stand  upright  in  them.  Such 
shelters  would  be  poor  protection  against  the  heavy  rains  and  chilling  winds 
that  sweep  up  the  Gulf. 

But  in  spite  of  their  poor  diet  and  inadequate  shelter,  the  Seris  still  have 
fair  physiques.  They  are  tall  and  well-proportioned,  with  wiry  muscles; 
and  look  as  though  at  one  time  they  might  have  been  a  highly  developed 
people.  Some  of  those  we  saw  were  clad  in  clothing  that  they  had  probably 
begged  from  the  crews  of  visiting  fishing  boats. 

Traces  of  civilization  lay  here  and  there.  One  hut  had  an  old  battered 
washtub,  another  a  tin  cup.  The  chief's  hut  boasted  two  five-gallon  oil  cans, 
and  a  few  other  odds  and  ends  probably  given  to  him  by  the  fishermen. 

We  soon  took  our  leave  of  the  Seris  and  returned  to  the  canoe,  too 
depressed  to  want  to  remain  longer.  Putting  to  sea  at  once,  we  spent  the 
night  in  an  isolated  cove.  Although  the  visit  to  Tiburon  had  not  been  the 
highly  coloured,  romantic  adventure  that  we  had  been  led  to  expect,  it  was 
nevertheless  an  experience  worth  having — to  discover,  not  more  than 
three  hundred  and  fifty  miles  from  San  Diego  as  the  crow  flies,  savages 
living  in  conditions  as  primitive  as  these. 

One  day  after  our  return  home,  I  picked  up  a  copy  of  "Modern  Treasure 
Hunters'*  by  Harold  T.  Wilkins,  and  glancing  through  it  saw  a  reference 
to  the  Seris,  which  explains,  I  think,  their  attitude  towards  authors.  Mr. 
Wilkins  says: 

“It  is  on  record  that  a  French  authoress,  Madame  Titayana,  the  Italian 
colonel  Masturzi,  and  a  lone  hermit,  the  American,  John  Thompson — who 
has  lived  for  many  years  on  a  small  island  in  the  Gulf  of  California,  landed 
on  the  island  in  1930.  When  they  approached  its  shores,  the  wild  Seris 
lined  the  wooded  banks,  brandishing  bows  and  poisoned  arrows,  with  very 
hefty  spears.  Madame  is  said  to  have  sung  them  a  Spanish  ditty,  which  so 
charmed  that  a  landing  was  permitted,  and  even  a  movie  camera  was  used. 
However,  the  three  foreigners  took  care  not  to  outstay  their  welcome,  but 
quitted  Tiburon's  shores  eight  days  after  landing.*'* 

The  Seris  are  apparently  fonder  of  fish  than  of  Madame's  singing,  for 
they  brandished  no  bows  at  us,  and  we  saw  no  sign  of  a  “hefty  spear.** 
Four  years  after  Mr.  Wilkins*  tourists  had  reported  their  findings,  not 
only  had  the  Seris  ceased  to  “brandish  bows  and  poisoned  arrows**  at 
passersby,  but  the  “wooded  banks’*  of  Tiburon  had  also  disappeared! 

Back  in  Guaymas,  we  decided  to  give  the  canoe  a  thorough  overhauling, 

*  From  Modern  Buried  Treasure  Hunters  by  Harold  T.  Wilkins.  Published  by  E.  P.  Dutton  & 
Co.,  Inc.  Printed  by  permission  of  the  publishers. 


Mexico* s  Untamed  Indians  89 

so  I  got  a  job  with  a  fish  company  that  enabled  us  to  buy  some  badly  needed 
canvas  and  paint. 

Guaymas  is  entirely  landlocked,  which  gives  it  a  wonderful  harbour 
but  also  shuts  out  any  vagrant  breeze  that  might  cool  things  off.  While 
we  were  there  the  sun  was  almost  directly  overhead;  and  a  thirty-foot 
pole  cast  a  shadow  only  a  few  inches  long  at  noon.  During  the  day  the 
rocks  on  the  hillsides  absorb  the  blistering  heat,  which  they  give  off  at 
night — as  do  the  thick-walled  adobe  houses.  Consequently  there  is  little 
change  in  temperature.  At  midnight  we  have  walked  beside  an  adobe 
building  and  felt  its  heat  four  feet  away. 

Miramar  Beach,  a  ten-minute  ride  from  Guaymas,  is  the  town's  play¬ 
ground,  for  it  is  always  ten  degrees  cooler  there  than  in  the  city.  On 
Saturday  night  Guaymas  goes  dancing  in  its  little  pavillion,  but  strictly 
along  “class"  lines.  The  mestizos ,  mixed  bloods,  the  “second  class,"  dance 
until  midnight.  After  that,  the  whites,  the  “first  class,"  take  over.  The 
Indiosf  the  “third  class,"  look  on.  The  classes  never  mix,  for  if  a  man  who 
belongs  to  the  “first  class"  associates  with  the  “second  class"  socially,  he 
automatically  becomes  declasse  with  his  own  group.  Americans  on  first 
coming  into  the  country  are  assumed  to  belong  to  the  “first  class,"  but 
they,  too,  are  subject  to  the  rules.  If  they  are  seen  to  associate  with  the 
other  two  classes,  they  immediately  become  social  “untouchables"  in  the 
eyes  of  the  ruling  caste. 

We  went  to  visit  one  of  the  los  correctos  families  of  Guaymas,  the  “first 
class."  Seen  from  the  street,  their  single-storey  house  was  unpretentious. 
Its  front  wall  met  the  sidewalk,  and  there  was  nothing  in  the  heavy  door 
and  shuttered  windows  to  give  the  passerby  any  indication  of  the  owner’s 
status.  Our  knock  on  the  door  was  answered  by  one  of  the  daughters  of  the 
house,  who  cordially  escorted  us  into  the  formal  entrance  hall.  After  the 
blazing  sun  outside,  the  profusion  of  potted  palms  and  ferns  gave  the 
darkened  room  a  sense  of  restful  coolness.  The  young  girl  went  off  to 
announce  our  arrival  to  members  of  her  family,  and  we  looked  round  at  our 
surroundings.  The  hall  opened  into  a  long  roofed-over  veranda,  the  living 
room,  which  was  open  on  one  side  to  the  walled-in  patio.  Heavy  blinds 
were  drawn  on  its  open  side  to  keep  out  the  heat.  The  room,  fully  sixty 
feet  long,  was  furnished  with  wicker  and  leather  hand-tooled  furniture. 
Several  cabinets  contained  fine  porcelains,  and  various  objets  d’art.  A 
beautiful  antique  chest  of  carved  wood  stood  to  one  side  of  the  room.  The 
furnishings  and  their  arrangement  indicated  taste  as  well  as  wealth. 

Our  hostess  entered,  and  made  us  welcome  in  beautiful,  soft  Spanish. 
She  immediately  drew  the  blinds  so  that  we  might  see  out  into  the  patio. 
In  the  lovely  garden  ablaze  with  flowers,  a  tiny  boy  was  gleefully  trying 
to  catch  goldfish  in  a  pond  resplendent  with  water  lilies.  A  maid  entered 
with  cooling  glasses  of  lemonade  and  papayas. 

However,  not  all  the  los  correctos  live  in  such  comfortable  circumstances. 


90  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

Wars,  revolutions,  and  time  have  swept  away  most  of  their  resources.  Few 
of  them  are  able  to  maintain  more  than  the  simplest  establishment.  The 
homes  of  the  poorer  classes  range  from  mud  huts  to  decrepit  adobes. 

People  in  Guaymas  are  very  friendly,  greeting  every  passer-by  with 
“Adios” — except  during  the  siesta  hour,  which  is  from  one  to  three  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon.  Then  if  the  impatient  gringo  demands  goods  or  services, 
he  is  received  with  anything  but  cordiality.  All  the  stores  are  shuttered, 
and  hell  and  high  water  won't  open  them. 

A  few  weeks  after  our  visit  to  Tiburon,  with  the  Vagabunda  decked 
out  in  a  new  coat  of  paint  and  looking  as  spruce  as  the  day  she  was  launched, 
we  paddled  out  of  Guaymas  and  headed  south  along  a  barren  desert  coast. 
It  was  the  country  of  the  fierce  Yaqui  Indians. 

Both  of  us  were  happy  to  be  on  our  way  again.  The  bright  sunshine,  the 
blue  waters  of  the  Gulf,  the  sense  of  mystery  communicated  by  a  strange 
land  and  its  unpredictable  people — all  these  combined  to  exhilarate  us. 

Near  Los  Algodones  Point,  we  ran  into  a  school  of  blue  jellyfish.  As 
far  as  we  could  see,  the  water  was  alive  with  them.  Their  colour  varied 
from  the  palest  azure  to  a  sapphire  as  deep  as  the  sea  on  a  sunny  day.  Their 
delicate,  transparent,  bell-shaped  bodies,  fringed  with  waving  tentacles, 
moved  slowly  while  they  searched  the  water  for  their  prey.  We  soon 
found  that  their  fragile  tentacles  packed  a  potent  sting  that  left  a  red  welt 
on  our  skins  wherever  they  touched  us;  that  is,  while  they  remained  in 
the  water — out  of  water  they  were  harmless,  and  could  be  picked  up  and 
handled. 

As  yet  we  had  seen  no  Yaquis.  Just  what  would  happen  when  we  did 
was  a  matter  for  speculation.  We  had  been  warned  many  times  about  them. 
They  were  an  unpredictable  people,  we  were  told,  fierce  in  their  likes  and 
dislikes.  They  harassed  the  few  American  ranchers  on  the  outskirts  of  their 
territory;  they  continually  caused  the  Mexican  government  trouble;  and 
like  the  Seris,  their  hatred  of  whites  was  proverbial.  The  parent  stock  from 
which  the  great  Aztec  civilization  of  the  Valley  of  Mexico  sprang,  these 
people  interested  us  tremendously;  we  were  anxious  to  meet  them,  and 
at  the  same  time  apprehensive.  For  it  was  evident  that  the  same  qualities 
that  had  made  them  a  thorn  in  the  side  of  government  since  the  time  of  the 
Conquest  had  under  more  fortuitous  conditions  made  them  great.  The 
miracle  of  a  magnificent,  indigenous  American  civilization  that  had  flowered 
in  the  short  span  of  four  hundred  years  from  a  rude,  barbaric  people  had 
been  no  accident — the  human  stuff  had  been  there.  What  of  the  present 
Indians?  Were  they  the  degenerate  descendants  of  a  once  potent  stock;  or 
were  they  valuable  human  material  going  to  waste  because  of  their  con¬ 
querors'  stupid  and  inept  handling? 

One  day  we  came  into  Santa  Barbara  Bay,  where  we  planned  to  make 
camp  just  east  of  Santa  Rosa  Point.  Here  the  country  was  a  little  greener 
than  any  we  had  seen  since  leaving  Guaymas.  This  stretch  of  coast  is  low, 


91 


Mexico's  Untamed  Indians 

sandy  and  barren,  with  occasional  bays  and  lagoons  to  break  its  monotony. 
Offshore  there  are  a  few  sand  islands.  While  we  were  busy  setting  up 
camp,  we  were  surprised  to  see  a  solitary  figure  standing  close  by,  who 
seemed  to  have  materialized  out  of  thin  air.  His  tall,  clean-cut  figure  was 
clothed  in  patches.  No  trace  of  the  original  garment  remained,  just  patches 
superimposed  on  still  other  patches.  A  Yaqui!  As  immobile  as  though  cast 
in  bronze,  he  silently  surveyed  us;  and  we  became  as  silent  and  still  as  he. 
It  was  our  move,  but  I  didn’t  know  what  to  do.  I  pulled  up  the  equipment 
box,  and  said,  “ Sientese ,  Senor .”  He  made  no  response  to  my  invitation 
to  be  seated,  but  stood  as  silent  and  immobile  as  before.  Opening  the 
fishing  kit,  I  selected  four  fishhooks  and  handed  them  to  him.  He  tucked 
them  away  with  a  broad  grin. 

Within  a  few  minutes  our  visitors  had  increased  to  four.  They  came  as 
silently  as  the  first  one;  shrouded  in  soundless  invisibility  one  moment, 
they  appeared  out  of  the  ether  the  next,  as  though  they  were  jinn.  It 
seemed  wise  to  explain  immediately  to  them  who  we  were,  where  we 
were  going,  and  why.  I  followed  up  the  explanation  by  asking  their  per¬ 
mission  to  camp.  The  Indian  who  had  first  arrived  said  briefly,  “  Una  diay 
no  mas!"  (“One  day,  no  more!”)  They  started  to  leave,  but  I  called  them 
back  and  gave  each  one  a  few  fishhooks  and  a  bit  of  line.  We  spent  the 
night  wondering  what  the  outcome  would  be,  now  that  we  had  met  the 
Yaquis. 

The  following  morning,  we  had  breakfast  over  and  the  canoe  loaded 
and  ready  to  go  before  sunrise — mute  testimony  to  our  state  of  mind.  Nor 
had  we  slept  too  soundly.  Among  our  possessions  there  were  many  things 
that  the  Yaquis  could  make  good  use  of — the  canoe,  fishing  gear,  harpoon, 
guns  and  ammunition — things  that  would  spell  munificent  riches  to  a  people 
as  poor  as  these  Indians  seemed  to  be.  Furthermore,  there  was  precious 
little  we  could  do  to  stop  them  if  they  chose  to  attack,  for  they  had  guns, 
and  knew  how  to  use  them.  And  if  their  reputation  was  to  be  believed,  they 
welcomed  nothing  so  much  as  a  good  fight. 

When  everything  had  been  packed,  so  that  we  could  leave  at  a  moment's 
notice,  we  decided  to  wait  for  the  Indians  and  find  out  what  they  had  in 
mind.  We  hadn’t  long  to  wait,  for  in  a  few  minutes  yesterday’s  quartet 
appeared,  accompanied  by  an  older,  better-dressed  Yaqui,  who  offered  us 
a  freshly  killed  rabbit,  and  some  dried  shrimps.  “You  stop  here  this  day,’’ 
he  said  in  fairly  good  Spanish. 

We  immediately  built  a  fire,  broiled  the  rabbit,  shelled  the  shrimps, 
and  made  a  big  pot  of  coffee.  While  we  sat  eating  the  old  man  put  us 
through  the  third  degree.  Just  why  were  we  here?  What  did  we  want?  I 
answered  that  we  were  here  to  learn  something  about  the  country  and  its 
people;  and  we  also  hoped  to  be  of  service  to  them  as  we  travelled  through 
their  country. 

This  must  have  been  a  new  approach,  for  the  old  fellow  warmed  up  at 


92  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

once  and  treated  us  as  kindred  spirits — which  to  a  certain  extent  we  were. 
Indians  are  fine  people;  and  the  white  man  who  takes  the  trouble  to  know 
them,  and  to  treat  them  decently,  is  invariably  well  rewarded  for  his  pains. 
The  old  chief  launched  into  the  story  of  the  Yaquis.  They  were  a  strong, 
proud  race,  he  said,  lhit  the  Spaniards,  when  they  came  into  the  country, 
instead  of  recognizing  their  pride  and  trying  to  understand  them,  did  noth¬ 
ing  but  mistreat  them  and  steal  their  lands.  So  the  Yaquis  struck  back. 
Furthermore,  they  intended  to  keep  right  on  retaliating  for  any  bad  treat¬ 
ment.  His  people  were  good,  the  Indian  insisted;  friendly  to  those  who 
were  friendly  to  them;  but  they  had  no  intention  of  being  treated  like  dogs. 
His  hatred  of  the  white  oppressors  and  the  governments  who  had  tried  to 
crush  the  Yaquis  was  mirrored  in  his  face  as  he  talked.  We  sympathized 
with  him,  and  I  gave  him  some  fishing  gear. 

Then  l  asked  his  permission  to  hunt  and  fish  in  Yaqui  territory;  this 
pleased  him  immensely.  "We  give  you  permission  gladly,  Senor,"  he 
replied,  and  went  on  to  say  that  few  people  recognized  the  Indians'  rights 
to  the  game  on  their  lands.  The  deserts  of  Sonora  and  Sinoloa  were  poor 
places  at  best — game  was  scarce — and  then  to  have  people  kill  for  sport 
the  animals  that  the  Indians  needed  for  food  .  .  .  well,  the  Yaquis  wouldn't 
stand  for  it.  They  had  as  much  proprietary  rights  over  the  rabbits,  deer, 
and  shrimps  as  a  rancher  had  over  his  cattle  and  grain  fields.  Whereupon 
he  invited  us  to  spend  the  day  with  them  shrimping  in  the  lagoon. 

Now  that  we  were  friends,  the  Indians  exhibited  an  entirely  different 
behaviour.  They  laughed,  talked,  and  were  exceedingly  boisterous,  and 
treated  each  other  with  a  rough-and-ready  good  humour.  Then  as  we  went 
about  the  business  of  shrimping,  they  were  about  as  stolid  as  a  bunch  of 
high-school  boys  on  their  way  to  a  football  match. 

The  Yaqui  is  tall,  slender,  well-knit,  and  wiry.  His  face,  with  its  high 
cheek-bones,  proud  aquiline  nose,  mobile  mouth,  and  square  jaw,  indicates 
intelligence,  humour,  and  great  personal  courage.  There  is  nothing  languid 
about  these  Indians.  Indeed,  their  high  spirits  would  need  to  be  held  in 
check  by  careful  and  adroit  handling  if  they  were  to  be  subdued  at  all. 
We  gathered  that  they  went  on  an  occasional  rampage  just  for  the  fun  of  it. 

That  night  we  had  dinner  together,  and  we  all  did  a  great  deal  of  laugh¬ 
ing.  On  parting,  the  old  chief  made  the  statement  that  we  were  very,  very 
strange  white  people:  the  only  ones  he  had  ever  met  who  understood  the 
Yaqui.  We  were  the  Yaquis'  friends,  and  he  would  send  word  along  the 
coast  to  treat  us  well.  He  was  as  good  as  his  word,  for  we  never  received 
anything  but  kindness  from  these  Indians  wherever  we  met  them. 

We  slept  like  tops  that  night.  No  longer  did  the  Damoclean  sword  of 
fear  hang  over  our  heads.  The  next  morning  when  we  sailed  away,  we  saw 
their  brush  shelters  down  the  beach,  only  a  short  distance  from  where  we 
had  camped. 

A  final  word  about  these  very  primitive  Indians.  They  eat  burro  meat 


Mexico’s  Untamed  Indians 


93 


in  preference  to  beef;  permit  no  racial  intermixture  by  marriages  outside 
tbe  tribe;  and  practise  a  religion  that  is  best  described  as  a  tbin  veneer  of 
Catholicism  overlaying  their  ancient  pagan  worship.  In  the  last  quarter- 
century  they  have  become  slightly  more  tractable  than  they  were.  During 
Porfirio  Diaz'  regime  tbe  government  fought  them  constantly;  and  they 
hastened  to  join  forces  with  Francisco  Madero  to  drive  the  old  dictator 
out.  Then  they  discovered  that  they  could  hold  a  hand  in  the  great  game  of 
Mexican  politics.  Today  some  of  the  best  fighters  in  the  regular  Mexican 
army  are  Yaquis.  It  is  possible  that  some  day  in  the  distant  future,  as  in 
the  past,  these  Indians  may  play  a  part  in  creating  a  great  indigenous 
culture  for  America.  The  heirs  of  Montezuma  still  live — and  the  future 
may  be  theirs. 


Chapter  Twelve 


THE  JUNGLE  THAT'S  NOT  IN  THE  GUIDE  BOOKS 


Mazatlan  is  almost  on  the  tropic  of  Cancer,  and  at  Cape  San  Lucas 
we  noticed  a  marked  change  in  the  vegetation.  The  sparse  growths 
of  the  north  gave  way  to  the  prodigal  verdure  of  the  south.  We  entered 
the  tropics  with  the  keenest  anticipation. 

The  past  months  had  worked  wonders  in  our  physical  condition.  Despite 
our  loss  in  weight  due  to  the  long  hard  hours  at  the  paddles  under  a  blister¬ 
ing  sun,  and  the  slim  rations,  we  were  in  perfect  health.  Our  muscles  were 
hard  and  tireless,  and  there  was  a  distinct  difference  in  our  sensory  and 
mental  reactions.  Our  hearing  had  become  so  acute  that  the  snapping  of 
a  twig  would  bring  us  out  of  a  sound  sleep,  whereas  at  home  an  alarm 
clock  had  failed  to  waken  us.  Constant  scanning  of  the  horizon  had  exer¬ 
cised  our  eye  muscles  and  improved  our  sight.  We  had  developed  a  pre¬ 
cision  in  the  co-ordination  of  our  eyes  and  mind  that  we  particularly  noticed; 
they  worked  in  unison.  We  saw  instantly  the  entire  picture  of  anything, 
with  a  minuteness  of  detail  which  at  first  surprised  us.  Our  sense  of  smell 
improved.  In  the  city  the  confusion  of  smells  makes  it  impossible  to  dis¬ 
tinguish  any  one  odour  clearly,  but  in  the  clean  air  we  could  soon  differentiate 
between  the  scents  of  animals  and  discover  a  fresh  water  hole  a  mile  away, 
if  the  wind  was  right.  Our  sense  of  taste  was  sharpened  also,  possibly  due 
to  the  lack  of  complicated  seasonings.  The  various  sea  foods  of  our  daily 
diet  took  on  decidedly  different  flavours. 

After  leaving  Mazatlan,  we  paddled  south  through  the  lagoon  country, 
thoroughly  enjoying  the  sight  of  the  lush  green  vegetation  after  the  long 
sojourn  along  the  desert  coast.  We  passed  fields  of  sugar  cane,  the  thatched 
roofs  of  native  villages,  and  dense  tropic  jungle.  There  was  a  price  to  pay 
for  all  this  beauty  though.  Thousands  of  mosquitoes  swarmed  round  us. 
Tiny,  almost  invisible  gnats,  called  jenjenes ,  stung  us,  leaving  red  welts  on 
our  skins. 

The  first  night  out  of  Mazatlan — our  first  night  in  the  jungle — we  began 
to  discover  what  these  pests  can  do  to  you.  About  midnight  we  were  routed 
out  of  a  sound  sleep  to  discover  that  we  were  not  alone.  Scrambling  out 
of  the  tent,  we  fanned  the  embers  of  the  fire  into  flame  and  proceeded  to 
investigate.  A  colony  of  ants  had  found  a  tiny  hole  in  the  bottom  of  the 
tent,  and  had  moved  in  bag  and  baggage — hundreds  of  them. 

In  the  morning  we  crawled  out  of  the  tent  to  be  greeted  by  clouds  of 


The  Jungle  That's  Not  in  the  Guide  Books  95 

assorted  insects.  We  built  a  smudge  fire,  and  tried  to  hide  behind  the 
barricade  of  smoke.  No  use.  We  could  keep  out  the  bombers,  but  the 
pursuit  ships  didn’t  mind  the  smoke  screen  a  bit.  Furthermore,  it  in  no 
way  discouraged  the  ants,  who  seemed  to  prefer  their  meat  seasoned  with 
smoke. 

We  decided  that  we’d  rather  brave  the  perils  of  the  deep,  so  while 
Ginger  made  breakfast  I  went  to  collect  coco-nuts  to  take  with  us.  The 
refreshing  milk  would  quench  our  thirst  as  we  paddled  under  a  blazing 
sun.  I  picked  up  my  bolo  knife  and  started  to  hack  my  way  through  the 
undergrowth  towards  the  palms.  The  knife,  with  its  twelve-inch  blade,  was 
much  handier  round  camp  than  an  ax,  but  for  cutting  through  tropical 
underbrush  it  was  little  good.  Each  time  that  I  slashed  at  the  branches,  I 
was  showered  with  bugs.  Finally  I  dropped  the  knife  and  frantically  pawed 
with  both  hands  at  my  neck.  I  must  have  looked  funny,  for  Ginger,  watch¬ 
ing  me,  laughed.  Then  I  grabbed  my  foot;  fighting  the  bugs,  I  had  over¬ 
looked  the  knife  and  had  stepped  on  it,  cutting  a  tiny  slice  out  of  my  heel. 

In  the  meantime,  Ginger’s  laughter  had  turned  to  ejaculations  of  horror. 
I  rushed  over  to  the  campfire  where  she  stood  as  though  made  of  stone. 
"What’s  the  matter?’’ 

"Look!’’  she  answered,  pointing  to  the  ground.  Two  scorpions  were 
crawling  out  of  the  dead  wood  she  had  just  placed  on  the  fire. 

"Grab  a  stick  and  kill  them,’’  I  said  crossly  as  I  limped  off.  I  was  going 
to  climb  a  tree  and  get  those  coco-nuts  if  it  killed  me.  I  reached  a  tree  and 
started  up.  When  my  legs  and  stomach  began  to  burn,  I  looked  down  and 
saw  that  the  bole  of  the  tree  was  covered  with  ants.  Then  I  was  mad; 
everything  seemed  to  be  conspiring  to  thwart  me  in  getting  those  nuts. 
To  cap  it  all,  when  I  reached  the  top  I  discovered  that  in  my  excitement  I 
had  failed  to  bring  the  knife!  Exasperated  at  my  stupidity,  I  began  wrench¬ 
ing  the  nuts  off  with  my  hands;  but  as  I  reached  for  a  particularly  large 
cluster,  I  almost  fell  out  of  the  tree  in  horror — a  great  hairy  tarantula 
was  crawling  down  the  bole  and  heading  straight  for  me.  I  started  going 
places.  The  palm’s  spikes  pointed  upwards,  and  I  wanted  to  go  in  the 
opposite  direction — fast.  The  result  was  a  massacre. 

I  must  have  looked  a  pretty  sight  as  I  limped  into  camp,  covered  with 
scratches,  cuts,  dirt,  and  bugs.  The  only  thing  I  didn't  bring  was  the 
tarantula. 

"For  the  love  of  Mike,  who's  been  clawing  you?"  Ginger  demanded. 

I  told  my  story. 

"Well,"  she  said  as  she  proceeded  to  disinfect  my  wounds,  "it’s  evident 
that  the  tarantula  had  the  better  punch." 

While  we  sat  eating  breakfast  in  the  smudge  which  burnt  our  eyes — 
though  the  bugs  just  loved  it — I  said,  "It  seems  that  we're  just  babes  in 
the  wood  after  all.  We’ve  got  a  lot  to  learn.  Let's  pack  up  and  get  out  of 


96  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

here/*  So  we  beat  an  inglorious  retreat  from  what  we  had  once  regarded  as 
our  promised  land. 

Paddling  down  a  tropic  lagoon,  we  discovered,  was  quite  different  from 
paddling  down  the  coast.  Here  the  wind  was  shut  off  and  not  a  breath  of 
air  stirred.  The  humidity,  coupled  with  a  sun  that  almost  seared  our 
toughened  skins,  soon  had  us  stewing.  We  were  bathed  in  perspiration 
and  round  our  necks  swarmed  clouds  of  mosquitoes.  Where  were  our 
story-book  tropics?  I  began  to  suspect  that  their  most  enthusiastic  deline¬ 
ators  had  limned  their  charms  from  an  air-conditioned  flat  in  Manhattan. 

As  we  paddled  along  we  were  both  preoccupied  with  the  problems 
presented  by  this  new  challenge  to  our  ingenuity.  The  mosquitoes  and 
jenjenes  were  greatest  in  number  at  sunrise  and  sunset.  We  decided  to 
circumvent  them  by  having  our  supper  early,  retiring  to  the  tent  until 
after  sundown  when  their  numbers  decreased,  and  by  staying  in  bed  until 
after  sunrise.  The  problem  of  ants  and  other  crawlers  we  could  meet  by 
building  a  brush  fire  over  the  proposed  camp  site,  and  then  scraping  the 
ashes  into  a  ring  round  it.  We  doubted  that  even  the  toughest  ant  would 
run  the  gauntlet  of  hot  ashes. 

That  night  we  put  our  new  system  into  effect.  The  bugs  were  eliminated. 
The  night  was  so  hot,  however,  that  even  without  the  bugs  to  annoy  us  it 
was  almost  impossible  to  sleep.  It  was  like  an  oven  inside  the  sleeping  bag, 
so  we  slept  on  top  of  it.  The  canvas  was  soon  wet  with  sweat. 

I  had  just  dozed  off  when  a  rustling  sound  outside  the  tent  brought  me 
to  my  feet. 

"What  do  you  hear?"  Ginger  whispered. 

"That’s  what  I'm  going  to  find  out,"  I  whispered  back  as  I  unzipped 
the  tent  flap. 

Just  as  I  stepped  outside  something  grabbed  my  foot.  I  jumped  about 
two  feet  in  the  air  to  land  on  something  else  that  crunched  as  I  hit  it.  One 
more  leap  found  me  beside  the  remnants  of  the  fire,  whose  hot  ashes 
burnt  the  soles  of  my  feet. 

"Close  the  tent,  and  stand  by  with  the  gun — we’re  invaded!"  I  yelled. 

"Invaded  by  what?" 

"I  don’t  know,  but  they  look  like  scorpions  or  spiders." 

The  tent  was  zipped  shut  in  a  hurry,  for  Ginger,  braver  than  most 
people  about  so  many  things,  has  a  mortal  fear  of  spiders,  no  matter  how 
small  or  harmless. 

Not  having  nerve  enough  to  reach  for  the  woodpile,  I  took  the  crossbar 
off  the  fireplace  to  use  as  fuel.  Then  when  I  had  fanned  the  coals  to  flame, 
I  looked  round.  The  camp  was  literally  alive  with  strange  creatures  whose 
great  orange  bodies  were  carried  on  blue  legs.  I  looked  at  them  a  full 
minute  before  I  could  identify  them — giant  land  crabs,  quite  harmless,  but 
often  present  at  night.  When  we  awoke  at  daylight  there  was  not  a  crab 
in  sight. 


97 


The  Jungle  That's  Not  in  the  Guide  Books 

After  breakfast,  we  loaded  the  canoe  and  headed  south.  Coming  to  a 
small  inlet,  we  stopped  to  inspect  it  and  found  its  shallow  water  full  of 
sting  rays,  whose  long  tails  were  armed  with  barbs  that  could  inflict  a 
nasty  wound  on  the  feet  of  the  unwary.  In  shoal  water  we  found  a  great 
many  shrimps  and  prawns,  which  we  used  for  bait  to  catch  a  large  mess  of 
fish  for  our  lunch.  We  tied  them  over  the  stern  of  the  canoe,  trailing  them 
behind  in  the  water  to  keep  them  fresh,  and  then  went  on  down  the  lagoon. 

There  was  a  distinct  thrill  in  paddling  along  the  quiet  blue  water,  listen¬ 
ing  to  the  sounds  of  jungle  life  that  went  on  round  us.  Stately  herons 
fished  in  the  shallows.  Silvery  cascades  of  spray  hung  an  instant  in  the  still 
air  in  the  wake  of  leaping  fish.  Overhead  parrots  bustled  past  in  pairs. 
An  odd  thing,  but  we  never  saw  a  single  parrot — always  in  pairs  or  even- 
numbered  groups. 

As  we  gazed  about  us  at  this  new  world  of  sound  and  life  and  movement, 
the  canoe  stopped  with  a  jerk,  and  then  moved  rapidly  backward.  Turning 
hastily  round,  we  saw  that  a  large  shark  had  tried  to  get  himself  an  un¬ 
earned  meal  by  stealing  the  fish  trailing  astern.  I  grabbed  the  killing  lance 
and  gave  him  a  vicious  jab  in  the  gills,  expecting  him  to  loose  his  hold  and 
swim  off.  But  he  refused.  He  hung  on  to  the  fish,  turning  over  and  over. 
Each  time  his  white  belly  came  up  I  jabbed  him  again,  literally  cutting 
him  to  pieces.  He  died  at  last,  hanging  on  to  our  fish.  With  my  sheath  knife 
I  cut  the  fish  off  just  above  his  jaws.  There  was  not  enough  for  a  meal.  We 
could  well  imagine  what  it  would  mean  to  have  one  of  those  killers  grab 
a  man’s  leg. 

That  night  by  the  light  of  the  campfire  I  wrote  in  my  diary:  “The 
animalitos,  as  insects  are  called  by  the  natives,  are  with  us  again  tonight. 
Ants,  land  crabs ,  jenjenes,  and  many  others  whose  names  we  do  not  know, 
thousands  of  them,  are  crawling  or  flying  round — each  one  of  them  intent 
on  getting  a  meal.  Some  of  them  subsist  on  foliage;  some  of  them,  like  the 
ants,  are  scavengers;  others  are  parasites  and  bloodsuckers.  We  must  study 
and  understand  this  complexity  of  life  if  we  are  to  survive.  We  had  no 
adequate  comprehension  of  its  extravagant  abundance  or  its  exceeding 
cheapness  in  this  land.  The  country  is  beautiful,  but  we  do  not  understand 
it,  and  are  afraid  to  explore  it  on  foot.  We  only  see  what  faces  the  lagoon, 
and  have  not  yet  ventured  ten  feet  into  the  undergrowth.  Tonight  we 
could  find  no  cleared  spot  to  set  up  camp,  so  we  undertook  to  clear  a  site. 
The  first  log  we  moved  unearthed  a  nest  of  scorpions.  Then  a  centipede 
crawled  over  Ginger’s  foot.  Ants  dropped  from  the  tangled  foliage  above, 
and  ants  crawled  out  from  the  decayed  humus  below.  We  are  both  a  mass 
of  welts  from  insect  bites;  and  as  I  write  this  I  am  still  being  bitten. 

“Off  in  the  jungle  today  we  could  see  the  homes  of  some  of  these  minute 
jungle  folk.  Great  mud  balls,  built  by  the  comejen ,  which  is  similar  to  our 
termite.  The  stately  castles  of  the  cutter  ant;  and  the  brush-covered  man¬ 
sions  of  other  intelligent  and  voracious  insects  whose  acquaintance  we  have 


98  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

not  yet  made.  It's  going  to  be  a  tremendous  task  to  know  these  tiny 
creatures,  their  method  of  existence,  their  likes  and  dislikes;  and  above 
all,  to  learn  how  to  avoid  them  as  we  tramp  through  the  undergrowth.  I 
am  wondering  as  I  write,  just  how  many  of  the  authors  whose  jungle 
stories  I  used  to  read  ever  saw  the  jungle.  If  so,  why  did  they  so  flagrantly 
omit  the  bugs!” 

The  next  day  we  paddled  on  down  the  lagoon,  and  the  day  after  arrived 
at  Boca  Tintexo,  which  opens  into  the  ocean.  It  was  a  difficult  channel  to 
negotiate,  but  our  first  taste  of  the  jungle  had  not  been  too  attractive  and 
we  were  glad  to  face  the  open  sea. 

To  acclimatize  ourselves  gradually  to  the  humid  tropic  heat,  we  spent 
the  following  fortnight  in  leisurely  sailing  down  the  coast — most  of  the 
time  close  inshore — until  we  arrived  at  Banderas  Bay,  where  we  decided 
to  make  camp  on  the  beautiful  north  shore,  between  the  bay’s  blue  waters 
and  the  jungle. 

While  we  were  busy  setting  up  camp,  we  saw  three  natives  coming 
down  the  beach,  swinging  long  machetes.  In  appearance  they  were  strik¬ 
ingly  different  from  any  natives  we  had  yet  seen.  They  were  dressed  in 
loose  pyjama-like  pants,  with  the  sides  crossed  over  and  tied  in  back,  and 
the  legs  tightly  bound  at  the  ankles.  A  loose  slip-on  shirt  was  held  in  place 
by  a  broad,  bright  sash,  knotted  at  the  side.  They  wore  flat-crowned  hats 
with  broad  brims,  set  squarely  on  their  heads;  and  on  their  feet,  heavy 
huaraches ,  with  the  heel  and  toe  built  up  like  a  Chinese  shoe.  A  pouch  hang¬ 
ing  from  the  sash  completed  their  costume.  Their  features  were  oriental, 
with  round  faces,  high  cheek-bones,  flat,  broad  noses,  and  slightly  slanted 
eyes. 

They  came  walking  into  camp  with  friendly  gesture,  and  asked  us  who 
we  were,  where  we  were  going,  and  where  we  were  from.  I  told  them 
that  we  were  going  to  Panama.  They  had  never  heard  of  Panama,  or  in 
fact  any  place  outside  the  limits  of  their  own  country. 

I  examined  one  of  their  machetes,  a  beautiful  weapon,  with  a  blade 
about  three  and  a  half  feet  long,  its  bone  handle  carved  into  a  serpent. 
Then  I  handed  my  bolo  knife  to  one  native,  and  inquired  what  he  thought 
about  that  kind  of  a  knife  in  the  jungle. 

"It  won’t  do,”  he  answered,  “it's  too  short.” 

How  would  he  like  to  do  a  little  trading?  I  suggested.  We  had  discarded 
so  much  of  our  extra  equipment  that  we  had  little  left  to  dicker  with  except 
the  fishhooks  and  needles  that  we  always  carried.  I  laid  out  an  assortment 
of  them  and  we  started  bartering.  The  natives  were  not  too  impressed. 
Finally  Ginger  said,  ”I’ve  been  putting  one  over  on  you;  I  have  an  extra 
lighter  hidden  away  in  my  ditty  bag — perhaps  we  can  trade  that.” 

She  got  out  the  shiny  lighter,  filled  it  with  some  of  our  remaining 
gasolene,  and  showed  them  how  it  worked.  This  turned  the  trick — the 
machete  was  ours. 


. 


101 


The  Jungle  ThaVs  Not  in  the  Guide  Books 

They  stayed  with  us  until  dark,  asking  many  questions  and  exhibiting 
great  curiosity  over  our  equipment.  They  were  Huicholes,  they  told  us, 
and  lived  near  the  Piginto  River. 

Then  we  had  our  turn  asking  questions;  and  we  asked  innumerable  ones, 
particularly  about  the  insects.  We  took  notes  as  they  talked.  When  they 
came  to  a  recital  of  an  insect  that  crawled  in  under  the  toenails  to  lay  its 
eggs;  I  held  up  my  foot.  We  had  noticed  peculiar  wartlike  protuberances 
between  our  toes  and  nails.  The  natives  gave  one  look.  t<Niguaf,t  they  said, 
and  one  man  reached  for  his  machete. 

“What  are  you  going  to  do  with  that?”  I  asked. 

“Cut  out  the  niguay  of  course.” 

“Not  with  that  machete,  you  aren’t,”  I  replied,  hastily  withdrawing 
my  extended  foot.  “If  there’s  any  cutting  to  be  done,  I’ll  do  it.  You  just 
show  me  how.” 

I  went  over  to  the  first-aid  kit  and  got  out  the  surgeon's  knife,  whose 
shiny  blade  filled  them  with  admiration.  As  I  took  it  out  of  its  oiled  wrap¬ 
pings,  I  explained  to  them  that  it  was  a  knife  made  especially  for  cutting 
flesh. 

Picking  out  a  large  lump  on  the  side  of  my  toe,  I  carefully  followed 
instructions  and  cut  the  top  off.  There  under  the  skin  lay  revealed  a  round 
white  sac  about  the  size  of  a  pea.  The  natives  said  that  it  must  be  removed 
without  breaking — it  was  full  of  eggs.  Using  the  tweezers,  I  worked  the 
sac  loose  and  pulled  it  out.  Ginger  daubed  the  big  hole  with  iodine. 

“Are  there  any  more  anirnalitos  that  make  sores?”  I  asked. 

“*S/,”  a  native  answered.  “There  is  one  much  worse,  whose  name  is 
talaje.  A  little  grey  one,  who  when  he  bites  leaves  a  blister.  Round  that 
blister  a  purple  bruise  forms.  If  you  are  very  careful  and  do  not  break  the 
blister,  it  will  heal  before  very  long;  but  if  you  break  the  blister,  it  makes 
an  open  running  sore  that  takes  a  very  long  time  to  heal.  Sometimes 
people  bitten  by  talajes  die.” 

We  spent  the  evening  removing  niguasy  and  next  day  limped  round 
camp  on  pretty  sore  feet.  The  following  day  we  were  able  to  sail  over  to 
the  little  village  of  Vallarta.  The  village,  built  on  a  hill,  seems  to  be  standing 
on  end  as  you  approach  it  from  the  sea.  We  landed  on  its  pebbly  beach, 
and  a  crowd  of  husky  natives,  as  usual,  immediately  took  hold  of  the 
Vagabunda.  We  always  had  a  difficult  time  explaining  to  natives  that  the 
canoe  could  not  be  dragged  up  on  the  beach  as  could  one  of  their  heavy 
dugouts.  But  once  they  got  the  idea  they  were  always  very  careful. 

The  Port  Captain  soon  appeared  and  examined  our  papers.  When  we 
told  him  that  we  were  going  to  Panama  his  face  took  on  a  look  of  great 
concern.  “This  is  a  very  bad  time  of  the  year,”  he  said,  “for  the  rainy  season 
starts  in  about  two  weeks.  No  small  boats  travel  along  this  coast  during 
the  stormy  season;  and  I,  as  Port  Captain,  cannot  permit  you  to  put  out  to 


102  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

I  began  to  argue  that  there  surely  must  be  some  calm  days  between 
storms.  During  the  rainy  weather  we  could  camp  on  the  beach.  But  he 
shook  his  head.  “Senor,"  he  said,  “these  squalls  come  up  with  great 
violence  and  suddenly.  You  have  no  warning.  It  is  best  not  to  attempt  to 
travel  at  all.  Even  our  canoes  do  not  venture  out  during  this  season." 

Ginger  turned  to  me  and  said  in  English,  “They  seem  to  have  a  deep- 
rooted  respect  for  these  rainy  seasons.  You'd  better  listen." 

I  then  tried  to  persuade  him  by  promising  that  if  he  would  clear  the 
ship  we  would  go  down  the  coast  a  little  way  and  camp  there.  He  also 
refused  to  listen  to  that  argument. 

“Senor,  I  have  told  you  that  you  cannot  go.  This  section  of  the  coast  is 
very  bad.  There  is  nothing  but  the  jungle,  and  in  it  are  tigers.  There  are 
no  people,  for  even  the  natives  go  to  higher  ground  at  this  season.  You 
had  better  make  up  your  mind  to  stay  with  us  until  after  the  rains." 

“But  we  have  no  money,"  I  protested.  “Here  we  cannot  eat.  Down  the 
coast  we  can  hunt  and  fish." 

He  was  adamant.  “Look!"  pointing  to  the  overcast  horizon,  “there  is  the 
forerunner  of  the  rains." 

We  were  in  despair.  We  couldn't  leave  the  port  without  permission; 
and  there  was  no  way  to  eat  if  we  were  forced  to  remain.  Finally,  in  my 
most  eloquent  Spanish,  I  explained  our  predicament.  Would  he  let  us 
go  not  farther  than  one  week's  distance  from  Vallarta  if  I  solemnly  promised 
we  would  stay  there  during  the  entire  rainy  season?  Wearily  he  shrugged 
an  assent. 

“Very  well,"  it  seemed  to  say,  “let  these  foolish  gringos  go  to  their 
destruction;  I've  done  my  best."  And  he  had. 

We  made  the  rounds  of  the  few  native  stores,  trading  fishhooks  for 
some  things  that  we  needed.  Again  we  loaded  the  canoe,  and  started  down 
along  the  coast,  sailing  close  to  the  shore. 

This  was  one  of  the  most  spectacular  and  beautiful  sections  of  coast  that 
we  had  cruised  along  since  leaving  the  Gulf  of  California.  High  cliffs  made 
an  amphitheatre  of  the  blue  and  brown  waters  of  Banderas  Bay.  Patches 
of  red  water  dotted  its  expanse;  little  streams  rushing  out  of  the  jungle 
emptied  into  it.  Most  astonishing,  however,  were  the  snakes,  swimming 
everywhere. 

Towards  sundown  we  came  to  the  mouth  of  the  Ylapo  River.  As  we 
pulled  towards  shore,  we  saw  that  the  water  was  full  of  these  snakes — 
bright  green,  with  yellowish-orange  bellies.  In  places  they  were  knotted 
up  in  bunches.  I  offered  up  a  prayer  of  gratitude  that  there  was  no  heavy 
surf  here,  for  the  Vagabunda*  s  prow  seemed  to  cleave  a  passage  through 
snakes.  My  thankfulness  was  a  bit  premature.  Just  then  a  small  wave 
caught  us  on  the  stern,  the  canoe  skidded  sideways,  and  for  no  particular 
reason  tipped  us  out  into  the  nicest  collection  of  snakes  and  stinging  jelly¬ 
fish  you  ever  saw.  We  swam  to  shore  so  fast  that  we  hardly  got  wet,  and 


103 


The  Jungle  That's  Not  in  the  Guide  Books 

turned  round  to  see  what  kind  of  mixture  we  had  come  through  just  in 
time  to  see  the  wind  carry  the  canoe,  and  all  that  we  owned,  rapidly  down 
the  beach.  I  started  after  it,  willing  to  risk  anything  to  retain  our  sole 
earthly  possession,  and  retrieved  it  at  the  cost  of  a  few  stings  from  the 
jellyfish. 

While  Ginger  prepared  the  supper,  I  went  out  into  the  water  and 
captured  a  snake  to  examine  it.  Instead  of  the  fangs  we  were  led  to  expect, 
its  mouth  was  lined  with  very  small,  sharp  teeth.  I  don't  think  the  bite  is 
poisonous,  but  it  is  probably  painful. 

A  strange  phenomenon  occurs  along  this  coast,  near  the  mouth  of  the 
Ylapo  River.  The  bay  at  this  point  is  extremely  deep,  over  one  hundred 
fathoms  (six  hundred  feet)  within  a  few  hundred  feet  of  the  shore.  The 
currents,  coming  round  Cape  Corrientes,  seem  to  spill  into  this  sub¬ 
marine  canyon,  and  as  they  emerge,  to  bring  with  them  many  strange 
creatures  from  the  ocean’s  greater  depths.  As  we  hiked  along  the  beach, 
we  found  the  carcasses  of  many  odd  marine  animals  which  we  knew  were 
not  from  surface  waters.  The  Indians  of  this  locality  tell  many  weird  tales 
of  these  marine  monsters. 

The  following  morning  we  left  at  daylight  for  Cape  Corrientes.  While 
sailing  through  the  calm  waters  of  the  bay,  the  water  beside  the  canoe 
suddenly  burst  into  spray.  A  great  manta  ray,  at  least  twenty  feet  across, 
leapt  into  the  air,  turned  over  completely,  and  came  down  with  a  mighty 
splash  that  showered  us  with  spume.  A  moment  later  it  jumped  again,  but 
this  time  it  was  far  enough  away  so  that  we  could  watch  it  without  being 
frightened  to  death.  One  of  these  rays  was  caught  in  the  Gulf  during  our 
stay  there.  It  weighed  three  tons\  Except  for  the  whales,  they  are  the 
biggest  marine  creatures  in  these  waters. 

As  we  rounded  the  high  cliffs  of  the  Cape,  we  saw  a  lighthouse  half-way 
up  the  steep  slope.  This  bit  of  man’s  handiwork  made  the  untouched  wilder¬ 
ness  about  it,  if  anything,  more  striking. 

We  had  started  to  round  the  Cape  about  11  a.m.  The  wind  shifted 
to  north-east;  and  while  we  seemed  to  be  making  good  time,  the  strong 
currents  that  gave  the  Cape  its  name  (Corrientes  means  currents)  bore 
against  the  wind  and  prevented  us  from  making  any  headway.  The  wind 
grew  stronger,  and  we  had  a  hunch  to  go  ashore  and  try  again  when  it 
fell  a  bit. 

As  we  changed  the  course  and  started  shoreward  our  hearts  sank;  for  in¬ 
stead  of  approaching,  the  shore  line  receded — we  were  being  carried  out 
to  sea.  The  tide,  the  current,  and  the  wind  were  against  us.  By  three 
o’clock  that  afternoon  we  were  ten  miles  off  the  Cape. 

Ginger  sighed  as  she  got  out  the  dry  rations,  and  prepared  the  canoe 
for  a  night  of  rough  sailing.  In  one  respect  it  was  not  as  unpleasant  as 
similar  experiences  further  north  had  been,  for  the  wind  and  spray  were 
warm.  The  sky,  with  the  exception  of  an  occasional  cloud  bank,  was  not 


104  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

alarming.  But  the  Cape  Corrientes  light  flashed  her  eye  at  us  from  in¬ 
creasing  distances — as  though  waving  farewell. 

At  12  p.m.  the  wind  shifted,  and  blew  from  the  north-west.  We  were 
running  before,  riding  high  swells,  with  a  nasty  cross  chop.  It  was  my 
turn  to  be  on  watch,  and  Ginger  had  settled  down  in  the  cockpit  to 
sleep.  Every  time  she  dozed  off,  however,  we'd  ship  a  sea  that  would  slap 
her  awake.  At  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  she  said  drowsily,  "There's 
something  wiggling  round  in  this  cockpit."  Then  she  yelled,  "It's  a 
snake!" 

In  her  haste  to  get  on  deck,  she  almost  overturned  the  canoe.  I  lifted  my 
feet  out  of  the  cockpit  in  a  hurry,  too.  The  moon  was  hidden  behind  clouds 
and  it  was  pitch  dark.  The  canoe  bucked  like  a  bronco;  and  Ginger,  perched 
on  deck,  made  it  even  more  unwieldy.  I  hated  to  feel  round  with  my  bare 
hands,  for  by  now  I  imagined  that  each  wave  breaking  over  us  unloaded 
more  snakes  in  the  cockpit.  There  was  a  chance  that  the  snake  might  be 
scooped  up  with  the  bailing  can.  I  peered  hopefully  at  each  canful,  but  no 
snake  rewarded  my  straining  gaze.  How  long  will  this  keep  up?  I  won¬ 
dered,  as  I  tried  to  keep  my  equilibrium  on  the  pitching  deck  and  bail  at 
the  same  time.  At  last  a  pale  moon  came  through  a  rift  in  the  clouds  and 
by  its  light  I  could  see  the  elusive  snake  in  the  forward  end  of  the  cockpit. 
Reaching  down,  I  grabbed  by  the  end  the  tail  was  on  (I  hoped!),  and  flung 
it  overboard. 

At  4  a.m.  the  wind  increased  in  strength,  and  we  began  to  gain  on  the 
light.  An  ominous  sound  from  shoreward  made  me  scan  the  horizon.  A 
white  mass  of  foam  came  into  view;  and  I  hastily  changed  the  course  and 
headed  out  to  sea  again  to  avoid  the  tide  rip  that  was  churning  the  water. 
These  tide  rips  are  of  frequent  occurrence  in  this  area,  and  it  is  best  to 
give  them  a  wide  berth. 

The  next  morning  the  wind  died  and  we  were  left  under  a  blazing  sun 
far  out  to  sea.  We  paddled  all  day  in  sweltering  heat,  the  sweat  stinging 
our  eyes  and  streaming  off'  our  bodies.  In  the  afternoon  a  little  breeze  came 
up,  but  it  was  gusty  and  did  not  do  much  good.  At  sundown  we  were  still 
five  miles  offshore,  and  the  breeze  had  increased.  We  were  blown  this 
way  and  that,  without  apparently  making  headway  in  any  direction.  Then 
rain  fell  in  torrents;  thunder  roared  in  our  ears,  and  the  heavens  blazed 
with  lightning.  The  Corrientes  light  blinked  off  in  the  distance.  At  9 
p.m.  a  gust  of  wind  from  the  south  struck  us,  jibbed  the  sail  over,  and  al¬ 
most  upset  the  canoe.  We  reefed  and  double-reefed  the  sail,  but  it  was 
impossible  either  to  sail  or  paddle. 

"We’d  better  ride  this  out  with  a  sea  anchor,"  I  yelled,  "or  we'll  be 
swamped." 

Ginger  made  repeated  attempts  to  open  the  cockpit  and  secure  a  line 
with  which  to  rig  the  anchor;  but  each  time  she  was  defeated  by  the  big 
seas  that  crashed  down  upon  us,  filling  the  cockpit  and  momentarily  threat- 


105 


The  Jungle  That* s  Not  in  the  Guide  Books 

ening  to  wash  us  overboard.  These  seas  were  not  the  mountainous,  heavy, 
relatively  slow-moving  seas  that  we  had  battled  in  the  north.  They  were 
short  and  high,  and  came  rushing  down  with  the  speed  of  bullets.  We 
finally  decided  upon  a  desperate  expedient — we  would  use  our  life  line 
from  around  the  gunwales  to  make  the  anchor.  Without  the  line,  a  heavy 
sea  might  wash  us  overboard,  and  that  meant  almost  certain  death,  but 
it  was  the  only  thing  under  the  circumstances  that  we  could  do. 

Then,  as  suddenly  as  it  had  come  up,  the  wind  died  down.  We  had  just 
launched  the  sail  overside,  tied  to  the  life  line.  Tensed  and  ready  to  meet 
the  adversary,  there  was  nothing  to  fight.  We  sat  and  looked  at  each  other. 
It  was  like  bracing  yourself  to  bear  the  shock  of  an  explosion,  and  hearing 
only  the  faint  fizzle  of  the  fuse.  This  was  a  perfect  example  of  the  un¬ 
predictability  of  tropic  weather. 

The  chop  went  down  soon  after  the  wind  abated.  As  the  east  greyed, 
we  dragged  in  our  waterlogged  sail  and  hoisted  it;  and  with  a  light  breeze 
from  the  north  helping  us  we  started  shoreward.  We  had  been  blown  out 
to  sea  for  a  considerable  distance,  and  it  was  late  in  the  afternoon  before 
we  were  near  enough  to  the  coast  to  look  for  a  place  to  land.  Our  muscles 
were  cramped  and  tired  from  long  confinement  in  the  tiny  cockpit,  and 
the  lack  of  food  and  rest  had  made  us  weary  beyond  words.  Now  there 
seemed  no  place  to  make  a  landing.  As  far  as  we  could  see,  great  seas 
were  breaking  everywhere  upon  the  beaches.  We  carefully  watched  the 
breakers,  hoping  to  observe  a  lull.  There  was  none. 

“It's  no  use  waiting/'  I  said.  “We've  got  to  head  in  and  take  a  chance. 
Wedge  yourself  in  the  cockpit,  so  that  if  we  bounce  round  you  won't  be 
thrown  out.  If  we  do  spill,  go  out  the  seaward  side,  so  the  canoe  won't 
hit  you  on  the  head,  as  it  did  the  last  time." 

Ginger  shivered  and  turned  a  white  face  towards  me. 

“Afraid?"  I  asked. 

“No,"  she  answered,  “but  I’m  tired,  and  I  don't  know  whether  I  have 
strength  enough  to  paddle  through  those  big  breakers." 

We  paddled  in  close  to  where  the  seas  were  breaking,  and  followed  on 
the  heels  of  a  breaker  that  had  just  crashed,  digging  in  with  the  paddles 
for  all  we  were  worth.  Then  we  got  one  of  the  major  surprises  of  the  en¬ 
tire  trip.  As  quietly  as  though  we  were  landing  on  the  shore  of  a  lake, 
the  Fagabunda  ground  her  nose  in  the  sand  and  stopped!  We  looked  at 
each  other  in  amazement.  Ginger  crawled  up  on  the  bow  of  the  canoe  and 
stepped  to  the  beach,  where  she  sat  down  suddenly. 

“How  did  that  happen?"  she  asked,  still  unbelieving. 

We  set  up  camp.  Then  while  Ginger  started  the  cooking  fire,  I  took 
both  guns — Ginger's  automatic  in  case  I  .should  sight  small  game,  and  the 
Luger  in  the  event  of  a  tiger — and  my  new  machete,  and  hacked  my  way 
towards  a  group  of  palms  I  had  seen  from  the  sea.  Cutting  through  the  last 
string  of  brush  to  the  palm  grove,  I  came  upon  a  beautiful  blue  lagoon.  I 


106  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

gazed  in  wonder.  Tired  and  hungry  as  I  was,  I  forgot  everything  else  for 
the  moment.  This  was  the  “Promised  Land/'  A  little  fresh-water  stream 
ran  into  the  lagoon,  and  across  it  tall  coco  palms  lined  a  white  sand  beach. 
Ducks  floated  in  the  water.  Great  blue  herons,  snowy  egrets,  sandpipers, 
and  shore  birds  were  everywhere.  Parrots,  and  other  birds  with  gorgeous 
plumage  whose  names  I  did  not  know,  flew  overhead.  Fish  made  rainbow 
arcs  of  colour  as  they  leapt  and  splashed.  It  was  a  scene  whose  beauty 
made  me  doubt  the  evidence  of  my  own  eyes.  I  needed  confirmation  and 
turned  back  to  camp. 

Ginger  looked  up  in  surprise.  “I  thought  you  went  out  to  hunt/* 

“I  forgot  about  that/*  I  answered.  “Come,  Fve  found  the  most  beauti¬ 
ful  place  in  the  world/' 

“Don't  you  want  to  eat  first?"  she  protested.  “You're  so  tired  you're 
seeing  things." 

Reluctant  and  unbelieving,  Ginger  followed  me.  We  soon  stood  together 
looking  at  the  fairylike  landscape  across  the  lagoon.  “Yes,"  she  said,  “that's 
the  place  we've  been  dreaming  of.  We  can  make  camp  there  during  the 
rainy  season,  and  build  a  thatched  hut  among  those  palms.  That  site  should 
please  even  the  Port  Captain  of  Vallarta." 

The  tortillas  and  scraps  of  dried  fish  tasted  like  ambrosia  that  night  as, 
in  our  excitement,  we  talked  with  our  mouths  full. 

The  lagoon  was  parallel  to  the  sea,  so  in  the  morning  we  loaded  the 
canoe  and  started  down  the  coast  to  find  an  entrance  from  the  ocean.  When 
we  discovered  it  shortly,  we  shot  the  breakers  at  its  mouth  and  were  soon 
in  quiet  waters.  But  the  tide  was  going  out.  Since  there  was  little  point  in 
fighting  the  current,  we  looked  round  for  a  temporary  camp  site. 


Chapter  Thirteen 


JUNGLE  IDYLL 


We  found  a  little  clearing,  where  we  decided  to  pitch  a  temporary  camp. 

We  were  both  busy  arranging  our  equipment  when  Ginger  stopped. 
“What’s  that,  Dan?” 

It  was  the  sound  of  a  paddle  against  the  side  of  a  dugout.  Since  we 
knew  nothing  about  the  natives  along  this  stretch  of  coast,  I  said,  “Better 
have  the  guns  handy.” 

Carrying  our  guns,  we  stole  through  the  brush  to  the  beach.  A  lone 
native  was  coming  across  the  lagoon.  We  watched  him  as  he  paddled  to¬ 
wards  our  beached  canoe.  About  twenty  yards  from  the  water's  edge,  he 
stopped  and  scanned  the  shore  line  carefully.  I  stepped  out  into  the  open 
and  beckoned  to  him.  As  the  dugout  grounded,  I  lifted  its  prow  and  dragged 
it  further  up  on  the  beach.  He  stepped  out,  grinning. 

He  was  a  big,  broad-shouldered  young  fellow,  well-proportioned  and 
very  dark-skinned.  Apparently  he  had  been  as  apprehensive  as  I  had  been. 
We  were  so  relieved  that  we  just  stood  and  grinned  at  each  other.  I  think 
we  became  friends  at  that  moment.  Then  his  face  sobered. 

"  Quinina?”  he  asked. 

“What’s  the  matter?  Are  you  sick?” 

“No,”  he  said.  “My  friend  ha s  paludismo.” 

“Oh,  your  friend  has  malaria.  Where  is  your  friend?  We  will  give  him 
quinine.” 

“He  is  in  our  camp  on  the  lagoon.” 

“How  many  natives  are  in  this  lagoon?” 

“Just  the  two  of  us.  The  others  go  to  the  mountains  at  this  time  of  year. 
This  is  the  rainy  season,  you  know.” 

“Why  are  you  two  here?” 

“We  are  wanderers,  we  are  vagabonds,”  he  answered. 

I  pointed  to  the  lettering  on  the  canoe,  Vagabunda .  He  stared  uncom- 
prehendingly  at  the  name  he  had  just  given  himself.  “We,  too,  are  vaga¬ 
bonds,”  I  said. 

Whether  tribal  differences  or  inclination  had  caused  his  wanderings,  I 
did  not  ask. 

“Come  up  to  our  camp,”  I  invited.  “We  will  eat  and  drink  hot  coffee, 
and  then  I  will  give  you  some  quinine  for  your  friend.” 

We  sat  round  the  fire  talking.  He  said  that  he  and  his  friend  were 


108  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

Aztecos,  a  tribe  related  to  the  ancient  Aztecs.  Although  he  spoke  a  mixture 
of  his  native  tongue  and  very  poor  Spanish,  we  managed  surprisingly  well. 
He  asked  our  names  and  we  told  him.  Then  we  asked  him  his  name.  It  was 
unpronounceable  to  both  of  us. 

"We'll  probably  see  a  lot  of  these  two  if  we  stay  on  the  lagoon,"  I  said 
to  Ginger.  "What  shall  we  call  him?" 

"Since  we  seem  to  be  following  in  the  footsteps  of  Robinson  Crusoe, 
let's  do  what  he  did.  What  day  is  this?" 

"My  diary  says  Thursday." 

"We'll  call  him  ‘Thursday'  then,"  she  decided. 

I  told  him  we  were  going  to  call  him  "Thursday."  He  grinned  agree- 

ably- 

When  I  opened  the  equipment  box  to  get  the  quinine,  his  eyes  widened 
at  the  unfamiliar  things.  He  was  particularly  interested  in  my  automatic, 
and  after  putting  on  the  safety  catch,  I  handed  it  to  him.  He  examined  it 
cautiously.  Apparently  he  had  never  seen  one. 

"Is  that  quinine?"  he  asked  as  I  handed  him  a  one-ounce  package  of  the 
drug.  He  was  unfamiliar  with  it  in  dry  bulk. 

"Yes,"  I  said,  and  told  him  in  detail  how  to  administer  it.  As  he  couldn’t 
quite  comprehend,  I  suggested  that  he  bring  his  friend  to  us  and  that  we 
would  give  him  the  quinine. 

"You  will  remain  while  I  am  gone?"  he  questioned.  I  promised. 

After  he  had  gone,  Ginger  said,  "Well,  I  knew  there  would  have  to  be 
something  here.  It  was  too  good  to  be  true.  Wonder  what  kind  of  a 
boomerang  they'll  turn  out  to  be?" 

"Thursday  looks  pretty  good,"  I  replied.  "Besides  we’ll  be  two  miles 
away  when  we  get  to  our  permanent  camp.  Don’t  worry  yet." 

The  next  morning  while  we  were  eating  breakfast,  we  heard  the  swish 
of  a  paddle.  "Hurrah,"  I  cried.  "Here  comes  Thursday  bringing  Friday. 
We’re  going  Crusoe  one  better." 

“Mandat”  shouted  Thursday  from  the  dugout. 

" Holal”  I  shouted  back. 

Thursday  strode  into  camp  with  an  almost  regal  bearing,  followed  by  the 
sick  man.  Friday  was  the  smaller  of  the  two  men,  though  of  equally  fine 
physique.  He  looked  very  sick,  and  had  a  blanket  wrapped  round  his  head 
and  shoulders.  I  made  a  place  for  him  on  the  equipment  box,  and  had  him 
sit  down  close  to  the  fire.  Thursday  tried  to  tell  us  the  sick  man’s  name; 
and  when  I  told  him  that  we  had  decided  to  call  his  friend  Friday,  some¬ 
thing  about  the  name  amused  him.  He  broke  into  laughter.  Our  hearts 
warmed  to  the  men.  I  looked  at  Ginger.  She  smiled.  From  then  on  I  knew 
it  would  be  all  right. 

I  mixed  a  stiff  dose  of  quinine;  Ginger  brought  a  cup  of  coffee  to  wash 
it  down  with.  "This  is  raw  quinine;  it  tastes  bitter,  but  it  will  help  you," 
I  said,  handing  him  the  stuff.  He  took  the  cup  gingerly  and  peered  doubt- 


109 


Jungle  Idyll 

fully  at  the  milky  liquid.  "Toma!"  (drink  it)  I  urged.  He  drained  the  cup 
without  further  hesitation,  making  a  wry  face  and  reaching  blindly  for  the 
coffee.  He  looked  at  me  with  an  agonized  expression.  We  sympathized, 
for  the  quinine  was  awful  stuff  to  take.  “You're  going  to  feel  better  right 
away,"  I  assured  him.  He  smiled. 

We  had  breakfast  together,  and  during  the  meal  the  men  gave  us  much 
valuable  information  about  the  surrounding  country. 

After  breakfast  we  started  packing  for  the  trip  up  the  lagoon.  Thursday 
watched  us.  “You  are  leaving?"  he  asked.  I  nodded.  “Where  are  you 
going?" 

I  turned  to  Ginger  and  said  to  her  in  English.  “They'll  find  out  that 
we  are  only  going  up  the  lagoon.  I  think  we'd  better  tell  them.  How  do 
they  seem  to  you?" 

“They  seem  like  fine  fellows.  Yes,  I  think  it's  all  right  to  tell  them 
where  we’re  going." 

“Listen,"  I  said  to  Thursday,  “we're  going  up  the  lagoon  to  build  a 
camp  where  we're  going  to  stay  during  the  rainy  season." 

His  face  wreathed  in  smiles.  “May  we  come  along?  We  are  very  strong 
and  we  can  help  you.  We  like  you  very  much." 

Ginger  straightened  up  from  her  packing  and  looked  at  Thursday.  He 
seemed  to  know  that  the  decision  rested  with  her.  He  just  looked  at  her, 
his  great,  eager  brown  eyes  watching  her  face.  Friday  sat  by  the  fire  and 
grinned.  She  was  weakening — I  could  see  it. 

I  laughed.  “It's  all  right.  You  can  come.  The  Senora  likes  you." 

Both  men  leapt  to  their  feet  and  gave  us  the  abrazo ,  the  familiar  greet¬ 
ing  used  only  between  friends.  They  placed  their  arms  round  our  shoul¬ 
ders  and  patted  our  backs.  Indians  do  not  do  these  things  unless  they  like 
you;  they  are  never  friendly  “for  business  reasons." 

Now  that  their  official  status  had  been  established,  Thursday  rushed 
round  and  helped  us  pack.  The  sick  man  sat  by  the  fire  and  smiled.  The 
canoe  was  quickly  loaded,  and  we  were  soon  paddling  up  the  lagoon. 
Thursday  sang  songs,  perhaps  of  his  tribe,  in  a  sweet,  mellow  voice.  The 
sick  man,  wrapped  in  his  blanket,  lay  on  the  bottom  of  the  dugout. 

We  landed  about  noon  at  the  palm  grove  we  had  first  seen  from  across 
the  lagoon.  Tall,  graceful  palms  grew  on  a  white  sand  beach  beside  a  little 
stream.  Vividly  coloured  ferns  and  flowers  lined  its  banks  and  hung  from 
the  trees.  Birds  and  butterflies  of  every  hue  of  the  rainbow  flew  among  the 
foliage.  It  was — well,  I  can't  describe  it.  The  brilliant,  flaming  splendour 
of  a  tropical  forest  can  only  be  suggested.  It  assaults  your  eyes  with  colour 
and  your  ears  with  sound.  The  air  is  heavy  with  the  sweet,  overpowering 
perfumes  of  flowers,  and  the  musty  odour  of  decay.  Everywhere  there  is  life. 
Taken  altogether,  it  is  tremendous. 

We  immediately  set  to  work  clearing  the  ground  and  burning  the  fallen 
branches.  Plans  for  a  house  took  shape.  Ginger  had  a  bright  idea.  “There 


1 10  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

are  four  palm  trees  here  that  almost  form  a  square.  Why  not  a  tree  house? 
Don’t  you  think  that  would  be  fun?”  I  called  Thursday  over  and  told  him 
our  plan.  He  nodded,  and  started  off  through  the  brush. 

As  soon  as  the  ground  was  cleared  I  made  a  bed  for  Friday,  who  was 
still  too  sick  to  take  part  in  the  activity.  While  Ginger  and  I  set  up  camp 
we  could  hear,  off  in  the  distance,  the  ring  of  Thursday's  machete.  “Won¬ 
der  what  he's  up  to?”  I  said. 

“He's  probably  cutting  trees  for  the  house  we  said  we  were  going  to 
build,”  laughed  Ginger. 

We  spent  the  rest  of  the  day  working.  During  preparations  for  the 
evening  meal,  Thursday  came  staggering  into  camp  carrying  a  great  pole. 
He  dropped  it  and  headed  for  the  jungle  again.  By  the  time  supper  was 
ready  he  had  brought  in  three  more. 

After  supper  we  sat  talking  by  the  fire.  Overhead  the  moon  threw  a 
silvery  light  on  the  midnight  blue  of  the  lagoon.  The  palms  made  soft 
rustling  sounds  in  the  light  breeze.  The  firelight  threw  dancing  silhouettes 
of  shadow  on  the  white  sand. 

Now  for  the  other  side  of  the  picture.  While  we  talked  mosquitoes 
and  gnats  flew  in  our  mouths.  Giant  moths  danced  round  the  flame.  Ants 
crawled  up  our  legs,  sending  little  jabs  of  fire  through  us  as  they  bit.  We 
knew  that  there  were  tarantulas,  spiders,  and  scorpions  within  hailing 
distance;  and  at  any  moment  one  or  all  of  them  might  stroll  in,  fly  in,  or 
drop  down  on  us.  To  this  day,  we  are  both  scarred  with  the  bites  of  in¬ 
numerable  tropic  insects. 

As  the  fire  died  down  the  Indians  strolled  over  to  their  dugout  to  sleep. 
We  noticed  that  their  equipment  was  limited  and  of  the  simplest  kind. 
Two  hand-woven  blankets,  a  few  earthen  pots,  a  spear,  and  their  two 
razor-sharp  machetes  seemed  to  be  all  they  had. 

The  following  day  was  a  long  hard  one.  Friday,  much  better,  brought  in 
big  bundles  of  bejuco ,  a  tough  tree-growing  vine.  With  this  vine  we  lashed 
the  floor  stringers  to  the  trees  about  six  feet  above  the  ground.  We  flat¬ 
tened  off  the  top  surface  of  the  floor  logs  with  our  machetes,  and  set  them 
in  place,  lashing  them  down  also.  By  sundown  the  floor  of  the  hut  was 
finished.  It  was  about  twelve  feet  square. 

The  next  day  was  spent  getting  material  for  the  roof  and  sides.  For  the 
siding  we  cut  young  shoots  a  few  inches  in  diameter.  I  had  started  towards 
a  group  of  shoots  that  seemed  to  be  exactly  the  thing  I  wanted,  when  Fri¬ 
day  called,  “No,  no,  do  not  go  near  those  trees.” 

“Why  not?”  I  said.  “They  look  all  right  to  me.”  I  proceeded  towards 
the  shoots.  Friday  just  smiled.  I  gave  a  good  whack  with  my  machete, 
let  out  one  blood-curdling  yell,  and  ran  for  the  creek.  The  creek  wasn’t 
deep  enough,  so  I  bounced  out  of  the  little  pool  and  ran  for  the  lagoon. 

Ginger  came  running.  “What  in  heaven's  name  has  happened?” 

“If  you  want  to  find  out,”  I  answered  as  I  came  to  the  surface,  “go  to 


Ill 


Jungle  Idyll 

that  tree  where  I  dropped  my  machete  and  shake  it.  Red-hot  coals  will 
drop  down  on  you,  stinger  end  first.” 

Friday  came  splashing  across  the  creek  and  stood  grinning  at  me.  "Why 
in  hell  didn’t  you  tell  me  it  was  that  kind  of  a  tree?”  I  asked  wrathfully. 

"Now  you  will  always  remember  that  kind  of  a  tree  very  well,”  he 
said.  "I  suggested  that  you  stay  away  from  that  tree,  but  you  are  very 
stubborn  about  some  things,  Danielito.  Such  trees  are  always  bad.  We 
who  live  in  the  jungle  never  go  near  them.” 

"I'll  detour  a  mile  round  one  of  those  bomb  throwers,  the  next  time  I 
see  one,”  I  promised.  This  was  my  introduction  to  a  tropic  scourge,  red 
ants,  which  inhabit  only  a  particular  kind  of  tree — at  least  in  southern 
Mexico. 

A  word  here  seems  in  order  about  the  natives'  attitude  towards  giving 
advice.  They  frequently  suggest  that  certain  things  are  not  wise  for  you 
to  do.  Sometimes  this  information  is  in  the  form  of  a  legend  or  parable. 
But  if  you,  an  outlander,  argue  or  persist,  they  waste  no  time  in  persuasion. 
"Very  well,”  they  say,  "let  the  foolish  one  find  out  for  himself — then  he 
will  always  remember.”  The  tropics  in  general,  and  the  Indians  in  par¬ 
ticular,  have  no  use  for  the  "wise  guy.” 

I  crawled  sheepishly  out  of  the  lagoon,  retrieved  my  machete,  and  the 
rest  of  the  day  tagged  along  in  Friday's  footsteps,  sincerely  grateful  for 
any  bit  of  information  he  felt  inclined  to  offer. 

In  the  afternoon  it  became  hot  and  sultry,  and  the  sweat  rolled  off  us. 
I  said  jokingly  to  Friday,  "How  about  running  uptown  for  some  lemon¬ 
ade?” 

"Ah,  limonada ,”  he  said.  "Sure,  I  go.”  He  started  off  into  the  jungle. 
I  called  after  him  that  I  was  joking,  but  he  kept  on  going. 

I  had  not  meant  to  send  him  off  on  a  wild-goose  chase,  and  I  wondered 
uneasily  where  he’d  gone.  But  in  about  fifteen  minutes  he  returned,  car¬ 
rying  several  long  sprays  of  an  unfamiliar  plant,  with  bright  red,  thick- 
skinned  flowers.  “ Haymaca,”  (perhaps  Jamaica?)  he  announced  proudly. 
Without  another  word  he  borrowed  one  of  Ginger’s  kettles,  and  started 
for  the  creek.  He  put  the  flowers  to  soak  in  the  pot  with  a  little  fresh  water, 
mashed  and  bruised  them,  and  then  filled  the  kettle  with  water.  We  sam¬ 
pled  his  concoction  gingerly,  and  afterwards  drank  it  to  the  last  drop.  It 
was  the  best  lemonade  we'd  ever  tasted. 

The  following  morning  both  Indians  were  missing,  and  their  dugout 
as  well.  While  we  were  starting  the  breakfast  fire,  and  wondering  just 
why  and  where  they  had  gone,  they  came  paddling  up  to  the  tiny  beach. 
Friday  held  a  sizable  string  of  fish,  and  Thursday  escorted  a  huge  sea 
turtle.  "We  need  food,”  they  said.  "After  breakfast  we  will  go  into  the 
jungle  and  get  more.”  During  Ginger’s  preparations  for  breakfast,  they 
butchered  the  turtle,  cut  the  meat  into  long  strips,  and  hung  them  on  a 
drying  rack  which  they  made. 


112  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

After  breakfast,  with  our  guns  and  foraging  sacks,  we  followed  them 
upstream.  Soon  Thursday  stopped,  called  us,  and  pointed  to  a  pool  ahead. 
Strange  little  creatures  were  crawling  round  on  the  bottom.  We  looked 
closely  and  recognized  them  as  a  species  of  crawfish.  “When  we  have  no 
turtle  or  fish  to  eat,  he  is  very  good/'  he  said. 

I  pointed  to  some  watercress  growing  along  the  bank,  asking  them  if 
it  was  good  to  eat.  “Yes,"  said  Friday,  “but  for  that  we  should  have 
clams." 

We  went  further  up  the  creek,  the  Indians  peering  into  the  underbrush 
as  we  went  along.  Finally  they  climbed  up  on  the  bank  and  cut  their  way 
to  a  small  bush  about  twenty  feet  from  where  we  stood.  After  clearing  a 
space  round  the  bush,  they  quickly  dug  up  several  roots  that  looked  some¬ 
thing  like  giant  sweet  potatoes,  although  they  were  longer,  knobbier,  and 
much  rougher.  Thursday  held  them  up,  “ Tuca ,  very  good  to  eat."  The 
name  he  gave  them  sounded  very  much  like  the  name,  yucca,  which  we 
give  to  a  desert  plant,  but  these  were  entirely  different.  The  Indians 
could  not  explain  to  us  just  what  kind  of  a  plant  it  was,  but  insisted  that 
the  roots  were  muy  sabroso — very  savoury.  We  put  them  in  our  sacks  and 
started  off  again. 

A  little  later  we  found  some  big  mango  trees  and  feasted  on  their  de¬ 
licious  fruit.  A  tree-ripened  mango  tastes  very  different,  we  discovered, 
from  the  fruits  picked  green  and  carried  to  market  by  the  natives.  We 
had  eaten  the  latter  in  Vallarta  and  had  not  liked  them.  Some  of  these  we 
also  put  in  the  sack  for  use  in  camp. 

In  a  swampier  section  of  the  jungle,  we  found  a  great  bed  of  plants  that 
looked  like  cat-tails.  The  Indians  waded  in  and  pulled  them  up  by  the  roots, 
which  resembled  giant  onions.  They  trimmed  the  tops,  and  these,  too, 
were  stowed  away.  Then  we  began  circling  back  towards  the  creek. 

A  grove  of  bananas  grew  near  the  banks.  I  started  searching  for  ripe 
fruit.  “There  are  no  ripe  ones,"  Thursday  said.  “The  monkeys  eat  them. 
You  have  to  pick  them  while  they  are  green  and  they  will  ripen  later  in 
camp."  The  bananas  were  tiny  miniatures  in  comparison  to  the  cultivated 
variety  with  which  we  were  familiar.  We  picked  several  bunches. 

Back  in  camp  again,  we  set  to  work  upon  the  roof,  which,  under  the 
natives'  tutelage,  turned  out  to  be  a  simpler  job  than  I  had  anticipated. 
However,  by  nightfall  our  hands  were  sore  and  blistered  from  the  rough 
bejuco  with  which  we  made  the  lashings. 

At  last  the  hut  was  completed.  It  was  well-built,  attractive,  and  com¬ 
fortable.  Inside  were  a  fireplace,  a  bunk,  a  table,  two  benches,  and  a  cook- 
stove. 

For  our  first  meal  in  the  new  house,  Ginger  prepared  an  elaborate  menu. 
She  lined  a  cooking  pot  with  boiled,  mashed  yuca  roots,  filled  it  with  well- 
seasoned  turtle  meat,  added  bamboo  shoots,  and  baked  it  in  her  tiny  oven. 


Jungle  Idyll  1 1 3 

There  was  in  addition  fish  broiled  with  coco-nuts,  mango  salad,  banana 
pudding,  and  coffee. 

When  the  meal  was  ready  Ginger  called  the  boys,  but  they  would  not 
enter  the  hut.  Arguments  and  persuasion  were  of  no  avail.  They  insisted 
on  building  their  own  shelter  and  doing  their  own  cooking.  We  felt  rather 
hurt  until  Thursday,  with  his  ready  grin,  enlightened  us.  “Two  people 
under  one  roof,  yes;  three  people — ”  he  shook  his  head  vigorously. 

That  night  we  all  sat  round  a  fire  outside  the  hut  and  made  fiesta,  a 
sort  of  house-warming.  We  sang  together,  for  the  Indians  had  taught  us 
some  of  their  songs.  The  music  echoed  and  re-echoed  across  the  lagoon, 
and  back  into  the  jungle. 

In  the  midst  of  the  festivity,  we  heard  a  low  rumble.  Thursday,  proudly 
using  the  slang  we  had  taught  him,  said  with  the  utmost  gravity,  “The 
thunder  god  is  going  'haywire' — soon  we  will  be  'all-wet/  "  He  looked  at 
us  for  approval.  We  laughed  hilariously  at  this  unexpected  demonstration 
of  our  pupil's  cleverness.  Then  we  began  to  collect  what  gear  was  outside, 
and  headed  for  the  hut.  The  boys  piled  extra  branches  and  fairly  heavy 
logs  on  their  lean-to,  and  got  under  cover. 

This  was  the  first  real  storm  of  the  rainy  season,  and  it  was  a  honey  I 
The  thunderclaps  seemed  to  shake  the  earth,  the  lightning  blazed  across 
the  sky;  the  rain  fell  with  a  thudding  violence  that  I  was  sure  would  cave 
the  roof  in,  but  not  a  drop  came  through  the  palm  thatching. 

We  built  a  fire  in  the  fireplace  and  sat  round  enjoying  the  situation. 
We  were  safe  and  protected  from  the  elements  for  the  first  time  in  many 
months.  We  knew  what  pounding  rain  meant  when  riding  out  a  storm  at 
sea  in  a  little,  unprotected  boat. 

“I've  never  been  so  happy  in  my  life,"  Ginger  confided. 

“Then  you’re  not  missing  all  the  things  you  had  and  could  do  at  home?" 
I  asked. 

“No.  And  when  I  stop  to  think  of  it,  there  isn't  much  to  regret.  We 
take  risks,  but  who  doesn't?  Remember  the  newspapers  with  those  scream¬ 
ing  headlines?  'Couple  Commit  Suicide’  .  .  .  ‘Crazed  Man  Murders  Six' 
.  .  .  'Airplane  Crashes'  .  .  .  'War  Threatens  Peace  of  Europe'  .  .  .  ‘Ten 
Killed  in  Week-End  Accidents,  Motorists  Warned  to  Be  Careful’  .  .  . 
Nothing  will  be  different  when  we  get  home.  Skirts  may  be  longer  or 
shorter,  automobiles  will  have  new  gadgets,  the  greatest  actor  or  actress 
will  have  Hollywood  agog — for  two  weeks;  there  will  be  a  new  political 
'crisis,'  just  like  the  old  one.  Otherwise  it  won't  be  a  bit  different — wait 
and  see.” 

We  sat  in  silence  for  a  while.  “Remember  how  we  used  to  pop  corn  on 
rainy  nights  at  home?  Wish  we  had  some.'' 

“How  about  trying  the  native  corn?”  Ginger  suggested.  She  got  out  the 
field  corn,  parched  it  in  the  frying  pan,  buttered  it  with  turtle  oil,  and 


114  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

sprinkled  salt  over  it.  It  was  hard  to  chew,  but  tasted  good,  and  we  thor¬ 
oughly  enjoyed  it. 

There  are  times  when  the  individual  loses  his  concept  of  himself  as  a 
unique  creation;  when  he  finds  himself  caught  up  and  merged  in  the  flow 
of  life  round  him;  when  he  knows  that  the  thunder,  the  rain,  all  life  and 
the  human  spirit,  are  of  the  same  substance — manifestations  of  universal 
energy  whose  parts  can  never  be  independent  of  the  whole.  Perhaps  the 
Indian  we  met  in  the  Gulf  of  California  had  been  trying  to  tell  us  this 
when  he  said,  ".  .  .  wait  and  go  with  God,  since  you  cannot  go  without 
him/'  Something  of  this  the  jungle  was  teaching  us,  and  we  were  particu¬ 
larly  conscious  of  it  that  night,  as  we  sat  listening  to  the  rain  beating  on 
the  roof,  and  heard  the  voice  of  Thursday's  "thunder  god." 

"Dan,  I  don't  feel  as  though  I'd  ever  want  to  go  back  to  the  old  way 
of  living,"  Ginger  said  after  a  long  silence.  "We  have  everything  that 
we  need  here,  and  we're  as  happy  as  any  two  people  in  the  world  have  a 
right  to  be." 

"Come  now,  aren't  you  becoming  a  bit  sentimental  over  the  simple 
life?  How  about  those  parties  and  dances  you  used  to  enjoy  so  much?  How 
about  a  good  movie?" 

"Oh,  you're  movie  enough."  She  started  to  laugh.  "For  instance,  your 
performance  yesterday.  You  took  off  with  such  a  beautiful  jackknife  dive, 
then  changed  your  mind  in  mid-air,  and  ..." 

"You  would,  too,  and  you  wouldn't  think  it  was  so  funny,  if  you'd  seen 
a  shark  as  big  as  I  did,  just  where  I  was  going  to  land. 

"I've  got  an  idea!"  I  went  on.  "How  about  building  a  platform  on  that 
big  palm  that  overhangs  the  lagoon?  We  can  weave  a  long  bejuco  rope  to 
climb  up  with,  and  dive  from  there." 

"Or  we  can  dam  the  creek;  then  we'd  have  a  fresh  water  swimming 
pool  about  twenty  feet  across  and  eight  feet  deep.  Of  course,"  she  added, 
"it  wouldn't  be  so  much  fun  for  you — you'd  miss  playing  hide  and  seek 
with  sharks." 

This  started  an  enthusiastic  discussion  of  a  series  of  projects.  A  beauti¬ 
ful  spot  near  the  creek  could  be  converted  into  a  park  with  benches  under¬ 
neath  the  trees.  We'd  plant  a  botanical  garden  there;  dam  the  pool  below 
it  and  stock  it  with  fish  and  shellfish,  and  have  an  aquarium. 

A  big  grove  of  bamboo  near-by  would  furnish  us  with  material  for  a 
variety  of  household  necessities — cups,  a  salt  shaker,  vases,  and  containers. 
Receptacles  for  storing  turtle  oil  could  be  made  by  boring  a  small  hole  in 
one  end  of  the  larger  sections  of  bamboo,  where  it  divides  at  the  joints, 
and  sealing  the  hole  with  a  plug.  This  would  enable  us  to  keep  a  fairly 
large  supply  of  clean,  sweet  cooking  oil  on  hand. 

We  needed  tableware,  spoons,  and  forks.  These  could  be  carved  from 
ebony.  Two  big  turtle  shells  would  make  an  adequate  dish  pan  and  an 
excellent  soup  tureen.  Smaller  shells  could  be  used  for  soup  spoons.  The 


115 


Jungle  Idyll 

list  of  things  grew  as  we  talked:  a  potato  masher  for  the  yuca  roots,  floor 
mats  woven  from  long  palm  fibres,  charcoal  sketches  on  bark,  framed  in 
driftwood,  to  hang  on  the  walls. 

In  the  following  days,  whenever  the  weather  permitted,  the  Indians  and 
I  went  on  long  foraging  expeditions  into  the  jungle  to  get  food  and  the 
materials  for  these  things.  Gradually  our  plans  materialized. 

“Ginger,"  I  said  one  day,  “the  house  is  finished,  our  work  is  done, 
and  we've  more  food  than  we  can  eat  in  a  week.  How  about  putting  on  a 
party?  We’ll  help  you." 

“Well,"  she  said  doubtfully,  “I  might  be  induced,  if  we  had  some 
mayonnaise — I'm  tired  of  French  dressing." 

“You  wouldn't  care  for  a  chocolate  ‘malt' — or  any  other  little  thing 
growing  round  here — would  you?"  We  laughed.  The  idea  of  being 
“tired"  of  any  kind  of  dressing  after  the  lean  diets  we’d  grown  accus¬ 
tomed  to,  was  funny.  “Hop  to  it,"  I  said,  “while  we  go  foraging." 

Thursday,  machete  in  hand,  started  off  for  the  jungle.  Friday  and  I 
headed  towards  the  lagoon,  where  we  found  a  great  many  big  shrimps  in 
a  little  inlet.  Then,  following  turtle  tracks  to  the  nests,  dug  in  the  sand, 
we  collected  fifty  eggs.  Turtle  eggs  are  white,  round,  and  about  the  size 
of  a  golf  ball,  and  are  covered  with  tough  membrane  instead  of  a  shell. 
On  a  bar,  we  discovered  some  sizable  clams,  similar  to  the  Pismo  clam 
that  we  have  in  California. 

Friday  kept  his  eyes  on  the  jungle  as  we  paddled  towards  camp.  “More 
eggs,"  he  announced,  pointing  to  a  tree. 

“We  couldn’t  eat  the  eggs  we  have  now  in  a  week,"  I  protested. 

“But  those  eggs  are  different.  Perhaps  the  Sehora  would  like  them," 
he  answered.  We  climbed  the  mangrove  trees  and  found  that  our  old 
friends,  the  tijeretas ,  had  been  busy.  Friday  was  right;  the  Sehora  would 
like  them — “mayonnaise." 

Then  Friday  discovered  some  bees,  caught  one  and  held  it  in  his  cupped 
hand.  I  wondered  what  he  meant  to  do  with  it  as  he  walked  towards  the 
beach,  where  he  released  it,  closely  watching  its  flight.  Going  over  to  the 
canoe,  he  picked  up  a  tijereta  egg  and  broke  it  in  half,  dumping  its  contents 
into  the  stream.  Then  he  caught  a  second  bee,  imprisoning  it  between  the 
two  halves  of  the  shell.  We  got  into  the  canoe  and  paddled  about  three 
hundred  yards  upstream  in  the  direction  taken  by  the  first  bee.  There  he 
released  the  second  one  and  watched  it  head  for  the  jungle.  “Let  us  follow 
the  bee,  and  we  will  have  buco ,  too,"  he  said.  We  hacked  our  way  to  the 
bee  tree.  “We  need  smoke.  Have  you  a  fire?"  he  asked. 

I  felt  in  my  pocket.  “No,"  I  replied.  “I  left  my  lighter  in  camp."  Fri¬ 
day  had  also  failed  to  bring  his  flint.  “Well,  we’ll  have  to  think  of  some 
other  way  to  make  a  fire."  I  started  looking  round  for  materials  with 
which  to  make  a  fire  block.  Friday  watched  me  dubiously. 

I  cut  a  section  about  a  foot  long  from  a  good-sized  dead  limb,  split  it 


116  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

in  half,  and  cut  a  slab  ten  inches  long,  four  inches  wide,  and  an  inch  and  a 
half  thick  from  one  portion  of  it.  From  the  other  piece  I  fashioned  a  stick 
a  foot  long  and  an  inch  wide,  and  rounded  it  at  both  ends.  A  slender  green 
limb  fitted  with  a  raw-hide  lashing  made  a  good  enough  bow.  With  my 
pocketknife  I  cut  a  little  hole  in  the  bone  handle  of  my  machete,  and  dug 
out  a  similar  hollow  in  the  base  block.  Giving  the  string  a  half  turn  round 
the  pointed  stick,  I  placed  one  end  in  the  base  block  and  the  other  end  in 
the  hole  in  the  machete  handle.  As  I  began  sawing  back  and  forth  on  the 
bow,  the  spindle  turned  round  and  round.  After  a  hole  about  an  eighth  of 
an  inch  deep  had  been  drilled  in  the  block,  I  cut  a  V-shaped  notch  in  it 
that  led  to  the  centre  of  the  burnt  hole.  A  wad  of  dry  palm-leaf  fibre  was 
placed  beneath  the  fire  block  for  tinder.  I  began  spinning  the  stick  rapidly. 
Soon  smoke  poured  out  of  the  little  hole.  When  the  V-shaped  notch  was 
filled  with  the  ground,  scorched  fibres,  I  picked  up  the  block  and  the 
palm-leaf  wad,  and  blew  off  the  cooler  embers  on  top,  leaving  in  the  cen¬ 
tre  a  tiny  coal.  This  was  placed  on  the  tinder,  and  carefully  fanned  into 
flame. 

Friday,  who  had  been  watching  this  procedure  in  open-mouthed  amaze¬ 
ment,  began  to  grin.  “Now  we'll  get  buco ,"  he  announced. 

It's  best  not  to  go  into  the  details  of  all  that  we  said,  while  trying  to 
get  that  tree  down  and  the  bees  smoked  out.  Eventually  we  wound  up  in 
the  canoe,  badly  stung,  but  with  a  considerable  quantity  of  well-smoked 
honey.  We  stopped  long  enough  to  plaster  mud  upon  our  stings  before 
going  back  to  camp. 

“Mud  fights?''  asked  Ginger  as  we  turned  up,  bedraggled  and  dirty. 

Silently,  I  handed  over  the  honey  for  her  inspection.  But  Thursday  had 
provided  us  with  competition.  “He's  brought  back  wild  limes,  tiny  wild 
oranges,  bananas,  avocados,  papayas,  guavas — he  even  found  some  wild 
tobacco,"  she  told  us. 

Towards  evening  we  sat  down  to  our  banquet.  We  had  turtle  soup  with 
bamboo  sprouts,  seasoned  with  wild  onion;  broiled  filets  of  smelt,  basted 
with  lime  juice  and  turtle  oil;  fried  bananas;  barbecued  turtle  breast  with 
gravy;  shrimp  salad  with  avocado  and  egg  sauce;  yuca  roots  which  were 
first  boiled  until  they  were  soft,  then  mashed  and  mixed  with  fresh  coco¬ 
nut,  and  wrapped  in  leaves  and  baked.  There  was  also  guava  jelly;  yuca, 
mashed  and  fried  into  thin  patties  for  bread;  a  drink  made  from  papayas 
and  the  red  flowers.  For  dessert  we  had  banana  and  coco-nut  empanadas,  a 
filled  tart  made  from  uncooked  tortilla  dough,  fried  in  hot  grease.  It  looks 
and  tastes  something  like  a  turnover. 

After  we'd  polished  off  this  meal,  we  were  too  lazy  to  build  a  fire,  so 
the  four  of  us  sauntered  over  to  the  little  park  where  we  sat  down  to  enjoy 
the  moonlight.  The  jungle  was  giving  its  nightly  concert.  We  heard  the 
piercing  scream  of  a  jaguar. 

“I'm  going  to  get  that  fellow  some  day,"  I  said  to  Ginger.  “Each  night 


117 


Jungle  Idyll 

he  comes  closer  and  closer.  I  saw  his  tracks  the  other  day.  His  pads  must 
be  six  inches  across.  He's  probably  the  reason  why  there  are  no  deer  here." 

"If  you're  going  after  jaguar  with  that  Luger,  you'll  have  a  pretty  job 
on  your  hands,"  she  replied. 

"I  don't  see  why,"  I  defended.  "I’ve  brought  down  some  big  deer 
with  it — why  not  a  jaguar?" 

"All  right,  but  I’m  going  to  be  there  to  back  you  up." 

"A  lot  of  good  you’ll  do,  with  that  twenty-two  of  yours.  You’ll  just 
sting  him — and  make  him  good  and  mad.  Hunting  jaguar  is  a  man's  job." 

"If  you’re  going  jaguar  hunting,  I’ in  going  jaguar  hunting,  and  that's 
all  there  is  to  it,"  she  insisted. 

The  Indians  rolled  sleepy  eyes  towards  us;  we  were  talking  in  English. 
"Ginger  wants  to  go  tiger  hunting,"  I  explained.  They  both  sat  up,  no 
longer  sleepy.  It  began  to  look  as  though  we  were  all  going  tiger  hunting. 
Friday  began  a  detailed  description  of  the  native  method  of  hunting  jaguars. 

Suddenly  both  men  ceased  talking.  They  seemed  to  be  listening  intently. 
"What's  the  matter?"  I  asked.  Thursday  held  up  his  hand  for  silence,  and 
continued  listening,  a  withdrawn  look  on  his  face. 

He  turned  to  Friday.  "The  Oojah ,"  he  whispered,  his  eyes  darting  to 
the  jungle  back  of  us. 

"Oojah?"  I  questioned. 

" Espiritu”  (Spirits),  he  explained. 

"Does  Oojah  mean  espiritu  in  your  language?"  He  nodded. 

There  came  to  our  ears  a  low,  deep  booming — so  faint  that  we  could 
barely  hear  it,  but  it  was  there.  "Tell  me  about  it,"  I  urged.  “What  is  it? 
Where  does  it  come  from?" 

"It  is  the  spirits  of  the  great  leaders" — he  rolled  his  eyes,  hesitated — 
"from  the  great  city  of  the  dead." 

A  thrill  of  eagerness  shot  through  me,  for  I  had  heard  natives  talk  be¬ 
fore  of  this  legendary  city.  "W  hat  kind  of  a  city  is  it?"  I  asked  Thursday. 

The  Indians  exchanged  worried  glances.  "I  am  afraid  to  tell  you,  Senor. 
You  are  white,  and  ..."  He  stopped.  This  was  the  first  time,  since  we 
had  become  well  acquainted,  that  either  of  the  men  had  called  me  anything 
but  "Danielito."  I  didn't  particularly  like  the  sound  of  "Senor,"  for  I 
knew  that  a  barrier  had  risen  between  us. 

"Go  on,"  I  urged. 

"I  am  afraid  to  tell  you,  because  if  anything  in  that  city  is  disturbed,  it 
means  the  death  of  all  my  people." 

"Thursday,  you  know  I  won’t  do  anything  to  harm  your  people,  don’t 

vi 

you? 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "Wre  trust  you,  but  you  might  tell  some  one  else.  The 
North  Americans  might  hear  of  it.  They  dig  up  the  graves  of  our  dead 
and  scatter  their  bones.  They  destroy  our  sacred  symbols.  Even  now  they 
are  digging  in  many  places." 


118 


Enchanted  Vagabonds 

"'But  don't  you  understand,"  I  explained,  "that  they  dig  them  up  to 
preserve  them — to  put  them  in  safe  places?  The  North  Americans  are  try¬ 
ing  to  discover  something  about  these  people — who  they  were;  where  they 
came  from.  How  can  they  know  unless  they  dig?  In  years  to  come  all  these 
things  will  be  destroyed  by  time.  You  know  how  the  jungle  and  the  rains 
ruin  everything,  don’t  you?" 

He  sat  long  in  silence.  Then  he  said  in  a  tremulous  voice,  "Those  people 
lived  in  that  city  longer  ago  than  I  have  any  word  for.  They  were  wise, 
and  they  were  very  good  to  us.  They  were  kinder  in  every  way  than  those 
white  men  who  came  across  the  sea  long  after  them.  Those  people  built  to 
withstand  time,  and  their  dead  and  their  history  have  remained  undis¬ 
closed — and  will  remain  so — until  they  choose  to  disclose  it.  They  sleep, 
but  they  shall  wake  again.  No  one  has  any  right  to  meddle  with  their 
dead.  My  people  only  seek  to  protect  that  which  they  placed  in  our  keeping. 
We  shall  continue  to  protect  it. 

"I  have  talked  with  men  who  have  travelled  in  your  country, — who  have 
been  to  that  very  city*  from  which  you  come,  Senor.  They  say  your  houses 
are  built  of  flimsy  materials  that  will  not  last;  and  that  you  think  only 
of  the  present  and  never  of  the  future.  When  night  comes  to  your  people, 
nothing  will  remain — nothing  of  yourselves — and  nothing  of  our  people, 
if  we  let  you  take  their  things  with  you.  No!  We  will  never  let  you  take 
them!"  His  voice  rose.  "It  is  our  heritage,  for  our  future — when  dawn 
shall  come  for  us  again!" 

We  sat  in  stunned  silence,  hardly  believing  our  ears.  Where  was  the 
good-natured,  child-like  semi-savage  of  only  a  moment  ago?  This  man  was 
a  different  being. 

"If  you  will  tell  us  about  this  city,"  I  said,  "I  will  promise  never  to  dis¬ 
turb  it;  and  I  will  never  disclose  its  location  to  any  one  else  as  long  as  I 
live.  I  make  you  this  promise  as  one  good  friend  to  another." 

"It  is  far  away,"  he  said.  "You  travel  up  this  stream  to  its  head,  then 
over  a  ridge  to  the  south.  There  you  come  to  another  stream,  and  then 
you  climb  to  a  great  mesa.  It  is  many,  many  miles  inland,  and  far  from 
any  living  man.  A  great  temple  to  the  Great  Power  stands  upon  a  hill. 
There  are  big  houses  in  the  valley.  The  dead  sleep  upon  a  hillside  where 
Guardian  Spirits  watch  over  them,  and  all  that  belongs  to  them.  There 
they  shall  sleep  until  the  dawn  comes  again,  and  the  Spirits  chant  the 
ceremonies  that  shall  waken  them." 

The  Indians  rose,  and  as  they  turned  to  go,  Thursday  said  cryptically, 
"It  is  better  to  be  poorly  laid  down,  than  well  seated,  Senor.  Buenos  noches , 
Senora."  They  disappeared  into  the  night. 

After  the  Indians  had  left  us,  we  sat  hand  in  hand  for  a  long  time,  gazing 
out  over  the  shadowy  lagoon.  The  moon  sank  low  before  we  finally  re¬ 
turned  to  the  hut. 


*  Los  Angeles. 


119 


Jungle  Idyll 

The  next  morning  the  spell  was  broken,  and  all  that  the  Indians  had 
told  us,  remained  only  as  part  of  the  night. 

After  breakfast,  Friday  jerked  his  head  towards  the  jungle.  I  grabbed  my 
machete,  strapped  on  my  gun,  and  followed  him.  He  led  the  way  to  a 
part  where  I  had  never  been  before,  and  stopped  beneath  an  unfamiliar 
tree.  Odd  round  fruit  that  looked  like  gourds  grew  close  to  the  trunk. 
“ Jicara ,  to  make  tiger  calls/’  he  explained.  We  collected  a  number  of 
them  and  returned  to  camp. 

Ginger  eyed  the  gourdlike  objects  eagerly.  “Fine!”  she  exclaimed.  “We 
can  make  a  lot  of  things  we  need  with  these.” 

I  objected,  “You  can't  have  these  gourds  to  play  with — they're  tiger 
calls.” 

“You  only  think  all  of  them  are  going  to  be  tiger  calls.  Some  of  them 
are  going  to  be  soap  dishes  and  other  things.” 

“Soap  dishes?” 

“Why  do  you  think  I've  been  saving  and  leaching  ashes,  if  not  to  make 
soap  with?” 

So  Ginger  got  her  share  of  the  jicaras ,  and  Friday  went  to  work  on  the 
big  ones  we  had  salvaged  for  our  tiger  calls.  He  cut  off  a  third  of  a  gourd 
and  carefully  scraped  out  the  inside  of  the  remainder.  In  the  bottom  he  cut 
a  small  hole.  Then  he  took  a  three-foot  piece  of  light  fishline  which  I 
gave  him,  knotted  one  end,  and  slipped  the  line  through  the  hole.  I 
laughed.  He  was  making  an  old-fashioned  ticktack,  such  as  I  had  used  to 
annoy  the  neighbours  with  on  Halloween.  The  string  he  resined  with  the 
pitchpine  which  the  Indians  use  for  flares  while  hunting  turtles  at  night. 
By  cupping  one  hand  over  the  open  part  of  the  gourd  and  rubbing  his 
fingers  along  the  resined  string  he  produced  first  the  plaintive  voice  of  a 
kitten,  then  the  low,  menacing  growl  of  a  tiger.  I  was  looking  nervously 
over  my  shoulder  before  he  finished  playing  with  the  thing.  We  made  two 
of  these  contraptions  and  hung  them  in  the  sun  to  dry. 

The  rest  of  the  day  was  spent  in  domestic  activities.  Thursday  and  I 
collected  coco-nuts,  which  we  split  in  half  and  set  in  the  sun  to  dry.  Later 
on  the  dried  coco-nut  meat  could  be  rendered  into  fats  for  cooking  and 
soap-making. 

When  we  returned,  we  found  Ginger  and  Friday  digging  in  the  creek. 
“Mining?”  I  asked. 

“No,”  said  Ginger,  “we’re  making  a  bath  tub.  Of  course  you  are  both 
looking  for  a  job.” 

We  denied  it  vigorously,  but  she  put  us  to  work  excavating  the  creek 
bed  and  building  a  dam. 

Very  late  in  the  afternoon,  Thursday  and  I  headed  off  into  the  jungle. 
We  followed  a  trail  alongside  the  creek  to  a  large  clearing  shaded  by  giant 
trees.  The  soil  was  packed  down  by  the  trampling  of  animals,  and  along 
the  creek  bank  we  found  the  spoor  of  a  big  cat.  Selecting  a  large  tree  near 


120  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

the  edge  of  the  clearing,  we  laid  cut  logs  against  the  trunk  to  form  a 
shelter.  Thursday  explained  that  we  would  hide  inside  this  shelter  at  night 
and  then  “call”  the  tiger. 

We  came  back  to  one  of  Ginger’s  tropical  banquets,  and  after  eating, 
sat  round  waiting  for  the  proper  time  to  go  tiger  hunting.  Both  Indians 
were  dubious  about  our  guns.  They  said  in  resigned  voices,  intended  for 
our  ears,  that  undoubtedly  they  would  have  to  come  to  our  rescue  with 
their  machetes. 

About  nine  o'clock  we  made  our  way  through  the  jungle,  took  our 
places  in  the  blind,  and  settled  down  to  wait.  It  was  not  easy.  The  dark 
jungle  seemed  alive  with  sound  and  movement.  Red  ants  invaded  our 
shelter,  crawled  up  our  legs,  and  bit  us  in  unexpected  places. 

Then  off  in  the  distance  we  heard  the  faint  scream  of  a  cat.  Thursday 
picked  up  the  tiger  call.  We  almost  jumped  out  of  our  skins  at  the  blood¬ 
curdling  sounds  he  produced;  the  howl  of  a  jaguar  rose  and  fell  in  the 
night.  Ginger  shivered  and  drew  closer  to  me.  I  grasped  the  Luger  tighter, 
and  rearranged  the  extra  clips  in  my  left  hand  for  quick  reloading.  Out 
of  the  jungle  came  the  answering  call.  Thursday  replied  with  the  plaintive, 
enticing  voice  of  a  female  in  the  mating  season.  Back  came  a  note  of  ex¬ 
cited,  inquisitive  interest.  The  big  cat  was  circling  wide,  but  his  call  came 
closer  and  closer.  We  were  shaking  like  leaves.  Soon  he  was  behind  us. 

The  jungle  noises  ceased  as  the  jaguar  drew  near.  We,  too,  sat  in  si¬ 
lence,  waiting  for  the  next  rasping  note,  trying  to  determine  his  position 
by  the  sound.  Puzzled  by  the  human  scent,  he  continued  to  circle.  Round 
and  round  us  he  went,  each  time  drawing  nearer.  In  his  bewilderment, 
he  began  to  answer  Thursday's  enticements  with  a  snarl  that  sent  shivers 
up  our  backs.  Now,  it  seemed,  he  must  be  right  beside  us.  We  could  hear 
the  pat-pat  of  his  feet  and  the  cracking  of  twigs. 

Thursday  emitted  a  low  plaintive  note,  barely  audible.  Suddenly  tense, 
he  whispered,  “Ya  viene /”  (“Here  he  comes!’’)  Our  straining  ears  could 
hear  nothing.  I  tried  to  focus  my  attention  in  the  direction  of  his  last  call, 
then  a  twig  snapped  in  the  opposite  direction;  and  I  turned  in  time  to  see 
his  great  body  charging  straight  at  us.  I  jabbed  the  pistol  in  his  direction 
and  fired.  My  bullet  hit  a  log  of  the  barricade.  The  staccato  of  Ginger’s 
twenty-two  mingled  with  the  roar  of  the  Luger. 

Thursday  grabbed  my  arm.  “Ya  se  fue ,”  (“He’s  gone”)  he  said. 

“Won’t  he  come  back?” 

“No,”  he  answered.  “That  tiger  will  never  answer  a  tiger  call  again. 
He's  different  from  people,  Danielito.  If  he  gets  fooled  once,  he  never  gets 
fooled  the  second  time  by  the  same  thing.” 

“Then  let’s  go  back  to  camp  and  have  some  coffee,”  I  suggested. 

But  even  after  several  cups  of  hot,  strong  coffee,  our  nerves  were  still 
jittery.  “I  was  never  so  scared  in  all  my  life,”  exclaimed  Ginger,  who 
still  looked  frightened. 


121 


Jungle  Idyll 

“He  sure  was  a  mad  cat/'  I  said. 

“Surely/'  Thursday  laughed,  “that  was  not  surprising.  He  was  of  an 
expectancy,  and  for  him,  too,  the  evening  was  a  failure.  Suppose  you  went 
to  find  a  Senora,  and  instead  you  found  a  tiger — well,  wouldn't  you  be 
provoked  a  little,  Danielito?  At  any  rate,”  he  finished,  “that  cat  will  go 
a  long  way  off  now,  and  then  the  deer  will  come.  Hunting  will  soon  be 
good  again.'' 

The  next  day  we  finished  the  swimming  pool,  and  started  on  Ginger’s 
rock  garden. 

That  night  after  supper,  the  Indians  were  strangely  silent.  “What  is 
wrong?’’  I  asked. 

“Tomorrow  we  go,’’  answered  Thursday. 

“Oh,  you  don’t  want  to  go  yet,’’  I  protested.  “Why,  the  rainy  season 
lasts  two  months  longer.  We're  just  getting  settled.  We  are  good  friends. 
Think  of  all  the  fun  we  are  having  together.’’ 

Thursday  stood  looking  down,  shoving  pebbles  round  with  his  toes. 
“No,”  he  insisted,  “tomorrow  we  must  go.  Perhaps,  who  knows,  we  can 
come  back  next  month. ’’ 

No  amount  of  persuasion  could  change  their  minds.  They  kept  stub¬ 
bornly  repeating,  “We  must  go.’’ 

Both  men  had  appeared  contented  and  carefree,  until  about  a  half  hour 
before  Thursday  had  announced  their  departure.  Even  the  jungle  had 
seemed  quieter  than  usual,  as  they  sat  silent  and  preoccupied  before  the 
fire.  Occasionally  one  of  the  Indians  had  lifted  his  head  and  peered  in¬ 
tently  towards  the  jungle.  Then  they  had  both  listened,  looking  with  queer, 
sidelong  glances  off'  into  the  darkness. 

Since  it  was  obvious  that  nothing  would  change  their  minds,  l  said, 
“Before  you  go  I  want  to  give  you  something.  Is  there  anything  that 
either  of  you  would  particularly  like?" 

Neither  man  answered.  They  stood  embarrassed  and  silent,  giving  us 
both,  odd,  smiling  glances. 

“Could  we  spare  that  heavy  hunting  knife  of  ours?”  I  asked  Ginger  in 
English. 

“I  think  so,’’  she  agreed.  “We  seldom  use  it  in  this  country,  and  it  is 

9  9 

I  went  into  the  hut  and  selected  some  things  that  I  thought  they  would 
like  and  would  find  useful;  the  hunting  knife,  with  its  hand-tooled  leather 
sheath;  a  variety  of  fishhooks,  and  a  light  fishline;  and,  remembering  the 
delight  that  had  flashed  over  Thursday’s  face  whenever  he  used  my  ciga¬ 
rette  lighter,  I  threw  in  my  spare.  A  snapshot  of  the  two  of  us  in  the  canoe 
topped  the  little  pile,  which  I  tied  up  in  one  of  our  bandannas. 

I  walked  over  to  their  dugout,  and  placed  the  bundle  in  the  bow.  “There 
is  a  little  recuerdo  (remembrance)  for  you,  but  you  must  not  open  it  until 
you  are  on  your  way,  to  wherever  you  are  going.” 


122  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

The  rest  of  the  evening  was  rather  sad.  The  Indians  obviously  hated  to 
leave  as  much  as  we  hated  to  see  them  go.  However,  they  seemed  to  have 
no  choice. 

Late  that  night  we  gave  each  other  the  "'familiar  parting”  and  went 
silently  to  bed.  When  we  awoke  next  morning  they  were  gone,  and  we 
never  saw  them  again. 


Chapter  Fourteen 


JUNGLE  RHYTHM 


Of  course  Thursday's  story  was  too  fantastic  to  be  believed  in  its  en¬ 
tirety,  but  how  much  of  it  was  true?  We  were  discussing  “the  great 
dead  city"  for  the  twentieth  time  since  the  Indians’  departure.  Unable  to 
forget  it,  we  re-examined  the  story  from  every  angle.  “We  only  seek  to 
protect  that  which  they  placed  in  our  keeping."  Did  that  mean  that  the 
present-day  Indians  were  descendants  of  slaves  or  peoples  subject  to  those 
old  pyramid  builders,  and  perhaps  of  a  different  racial  stock?  If  one  could 
only  get  at  the  facts  behind  the  mists  of  legend.  “They  sleep  but  they 
shall  wake  again."  Where  had  they  gotten  the  idea  of  death  and  resurrec¬ 
tion?  Was  this  a  borrowing  from  Catholicism  or  did  the  pre-Conquest 
peoples  of  America  have  a  similar  belief? 

After  some  consideration  I  said  to  Ginger,  “How  would  you  like  to  go 
and  see  this  place?" 

She  protested.  “It  might  be  dangerous.  So  far  we've  only  gotten  into 
trouble  by  disregarding  the  natives'  advice.  Remember  Magdalena  Bay." 

“Listen,"  I  argued,  “if  we'd  followed  ‘advice,'  we’d  be  in  Santa  Ana 
right  now.  Sure,  I  got  bit  by  a  coyote;  people  get  bit  by  going  to  zoos, 
too.  We  didn't  promise  not  to  go  to  their  city.  We  promised  not  to  dis¬ 
turb  anything  if  we  did  go,  or  to  disclose  its  location  to  any  one  else.  I 
don’t  see  why  we  shouldn't  go  if  we  want  to." 

“How  long  do  you  think  it  would  take  us  to  get  there?"  I  knew  from 
the  feeble  fight  she  was  putting  up  that  she  was  not  really  opposed  to  the 
plan.  She  merely  wanted  to  be  assured  that  it  was  a  good  idea. 

“We  don’t  care  how  long  it  takes,"  I  answered.  “It  might  take  two 
weeks  or  a  month.  We  have  plenty  of  time.  Now  that  we’ve  learnt  to 
forage  for  our  food  in  the  jungle,  all  we  need  to  carry  is  our  hiking  gear 
and  guns;  and  surely,  we  can  manage  that  much  of  a  load." 

“I  want  to  go  as  much  as  you  do,"  she  answered,  “but  I  wonder  if  we 
know  enough  about  the  jungle  yet  to  attempt  this  kind  of  a  trip." 

“Well,  if  we  try  it  and  find  that  we  can't  make  it,  we  can  always  turn 
back,"  I  said. 

“Then  let's  go.  I've  really  wanted  to  explore  this  ruined  city  ever 
since  we  first  heard  of  it." 

There  were  a  great  many  things  to  be  done  in  camp  before  we  could 
leave.  Food  for  the  trail,  toasted  tortillas,  yuca  roots,  dried  meat,  fish  and 


124  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

shrimps,  had  to  be  prepared.  Then  it  was  necessary  to  build  bug  traps 
round  the  base  of  the  coco-nut  trees  to  keep  the  ants  from  raiding  the 
place  while  we  were  gone. 

Four  days  later  everything  seemed  to  be  in  order  as  we  took  one  last 
look  round.  The  canoe  was  safely  stored  under  the  hut  and  a  heavy  door 
had  been  lashed  to  the  hut's  entrance  to  keep  the  animals  out. 

We  were  dressed  in  khaki  shirts,  blue  jeans,  and  tennis  shoes,  with 
bandanna  handkerchiefs  tied  round  our  heads.  Ginger  carried  her  twenty- 
two  automatic  and  her  light  hunting  knife;  and  in  her  knapsack,  which 
weighed  about  thirty  pounds,  she  carried  part  of  the  rations.  Her  pockets 
were  stuffed  with  articles  from  the  first-aid  kit,  ammunition — and  her 
powder  box!  I  carried  the  Luger,  plenty  of  ammunition  and  clips,  the 
camera,  and  my  big  machete,  in  addition  to  my  pack  which  weighed  sixty 
pounds.  In  the  pack  were  the  sleeping  bag  and  tent,  part  of  our  mess  kit, 
the  films,  and  the  balance  of  the  food. 

After  a  short  distance  I  discovered  that  it  was  impossible  to  hack  a  way 
through  the  jungle  with  the  heavy  knapsack  on  my  back.  “This  idea  isn't 
going  to  work,''  I  said.  “My  shoulders  are  already  raw  from  the  straps/' 
We  stopped  and  I  began  unpacking  the  knapsack. 

“What  are  you  going  to  do?"  asked  Ginger. 

“Make  a  horseshoe  pack  out  of  the  tent.  We'll  leave  the  knapsack 
with  the  food  in  it  here,  and  I'll  come  back  and  get  it  from  wherever  we 
stop  for  the  night."  Ginger  protested  that  would  mean  that  I'd  have  to 
double  back  all  the  way.  “But  there’s  nothing  else  to  do.  It's  next  to  im¬ 
possible  to  cut  through  this  heavy  growth  and  carry  that  knapsack  at  the 
same  time.  The  pack  interferes  with  my  use  of  the  machete,  and  if  we  try 
to  force  our  way  through  without  cutting,  we'll  be  covered  with  bugs." 

I  made  a  horseshoe  pack  by  laying  out  the  tent,  putting  at  each  end  the 
things  I  wanted  to  carry,  then  rolling  it  loosely  and  tying  the  ends,  which  I 
lashed  together.  It  fitted  snugly  over  my  shoulders,  leaving  my  right  arm 
free  to  do  the  cutting. 

After  this  change  in  travelling  style,  our  progress  became  much  easier. 
Soon  we  were  in  beautiful  country.  Great  elephant-eared  ferns  grew  higher 
than  our  heads.  Innumerable  vines  laced  and  festooned  the  giant  trees, 
and  formed  an  aerial  passage,  high  above  the  jungle  floor,  for  groups  of 
monkeys  and  other  tree-dwellers.  Gorgeous  orchids,  strange  flowering 
plants,  and  trees  grew  everywhere.  Had  it  not  been  for  the  insects  it 
would  have  been  a  perfect  Eden. 

I  began  to  itch  and  my  legs  felt  as  though  they  were  on  fire.  Unshoulder¬ 
ing  my  pack,  I  pulled  up  my  pants'  leg.  My  leg  was  almost  black  with 
millions  of  minute  insects  that  looked  like  midget  ticks.  Ginger  was  cov¬ 
ered  with  them,  too.  We  decided  to  take  a  bath  in  the  creek  and  see  if 
that  wouldn't  rid  us  of  them.  But  while  they  were  not  hard  to  wash  off 
our  bodies,  they  had  a  way  of  lodging  themselves  in  the  fabric  and  be- 


Jungle  Rhythm  125 

tween  the  seams  in  our  clothes.  Once  there,  they  almost  defied  us  to  come 
and  get  them. 

Finding  there  were  very  few  of  them  above  the  knees,  I  decided  to  make 
shorts  out  of  the  blue  jeans.  After  cutting  off'  one  pants’  leg  above  the 
knee  with  my  pocketknife,  I  hesitated.  What  would  Ginger  say?  Too  late 
now,  the  other  had  to  come  off,  too. 

"Oh,  Dan,  your  only  pair  of  pants!"  she  wailed  when  she  saw  me. 

"Pants — hell!  These  are  shorts,"  I  answered. 

"You  mean  to  go  through  the  jungle  in  shorts?"  she  questioned  un¬ 
believingly. 

"Why  not?  The  natives  do.  Every  time  the  boys  went  into  the  jungle 
they  pulled  their  pants'  legs  up  as  high  as  they  could.  We’re  cutting  the 
trail  all  the  way,  and  the  only  things  we  come  in  contact  with  are  the 
things  we  step  on.  Why  don't  you  cut  yours  oft',  too?" 

She  did,  and  we  continued  on  more  comfortably,  giving  a  wide  berth 
to  the  trees  we  had  learned  to  avoid,  and  picking  the  easiest  way  through 
the  underbrush.  Towards  evening  we  found  an  open  space  beside  a  stream, 
where  we  decided  to  stop  for  the  night.  While  Ginger  began  the  supper 
preparations,  I  went  back  to  pick  up  the  knapsack.  To  my  surprise  we  had 
travelled  only  a  short  distance;  it  had  seemed  like  miles  as  we  cut  through. 

Returning  to  camp,  I  found  Ginger  sitting  in  the  middle  of  the  clearing 
with  her  gun  in  her  hand.  She  looked  up  with  relief.  "I’m  glad  you’re  back. 
This  place  is  alive  with  more  strange  noises — animals — or  something." 

"Don’t  worry,"  I  said.  "We’ll  build  a  big  fire  and  put  the  tent  up, 
and  we’ll  keep  our  guns  handy — just  in  case." 

That  first  night  in  the  jungle,  sleep  was  long  in  coming  and  difficult. 
Time  and  again  we  sat  up,  wide  awake,  our  guns  in  our  hands,  tense  and 
waiting — but  nothing  happened. 

Morning  found  us  tired  and  a  little  groggy  from  lack  of  rest.  We  broke 
camp,  packed  the  large  mess  kettle  with  food,  and  left  it  hanging  on  a 
limb  with  our  knapsacks.  It  was  tough  going  as  we  cut  our  way  upstream. 
Sometimes  we  came  to  fairly  clear  spots,  where  for  a  couple  of  hundred 
yards,  or  so  travelling  would  be  easy. 

In  the  afternoon  the  jungle  became  absolutely  silent.  Then  off  in  the 
distance,  we  heard  thunder.  "Let’s  find  some  shelter,  Dan,"  urged  Ginger. 
Ahead  we  saw  a  big  tree,  and  cut  our  way  to  it  as  the  storm  broke.  It  was 
poor  protection,  however,  for  the  broad  leaves  acted  as  funnels.  W  ater 
poured  down  the  bole  and  on  to  us.  We  decided  to  go  on  regardless  of  the 
rain.  It  would  at  least  keep  some  of  the  bugs  washed  off;  and  since  it  was 
warm,  it  would  be  more  refreshing  than  uncomfortable. 

At  last  we  came  to  the  headwaters  of  the  stream.  Here  the  canyon  nar¬ 
rowed  down  to  a  deep,  dark  ravine,  and  to  go  further  on  up  the  gorge 
looked  difficult.  "Want  to  make  camp  by  this  stream,  or  climb  the  canyon 


1 26  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

side  to  the  ridge  and  take  a  chance  on  finding  another  stream  by  night?" 
I  asked  Ginger. 

"I'd  rather  try  the  ridge/'  she  answered.  "This  place  is  so  dark  and 
mysterious  I'm  sure  I  could  never  go  to  sleep." 

Leaving  the  gloomy  and  oppressive  ravine,  we  climbed  up  the  canyon 
to  the  ridge  above.  It  was  red  adobe  mud,  and  we  slipped  and  fell  so  often 
that  we  soon  looked  like  Indians  in  full  war  paint.  I  wondered  how  much 
longer  I  could  continue  to  cut  the  heavy  undergrowth  on  the  slippery  adobe 
without  falling  on  my  machete.  The  law  of  averages  might  be  a  million 
to  one  in  my  favour,  but  sooner  or  later  I  was  due  for  some  nasty  conse¬ 
quences  if  I  fell  on  that  wicked  four-foot  blade.  Most  of  the  way  we  climbed 
on  our  hands  and  knees,  taking  a  devious  course  round  huge  rocks,  cut¬ 
ting  and  slashing  through  the  dense  growth.  Eventually  we  reached  the 
crest  of  the  ridge. 

The  ground  was  fairly  clear,  and  after  the  ascent,  it  seemed  like  strolling 
down  a  boulevard  at  home.  The  luxuriant  jungle  gave  way  to  sparse 
growths  of  ocotet  or  pitch  pine.  The  ridge  sloped  gradually  to  the  high 
mountains  of  the  interior,  and  we  could  see  no  canyon  like  the  one  we  had 
been  told  to  look  for.  There  seemed  to  be  only  a  succession  of  steep  ridges. 
At  sundown  we  were  still  on  the  hogback,  far  from  water.  We  had  brought 
none  with  us,  and  only  a  small  quantity  of  food.  I  was  thankful  that  we 
at  least  had  the  pup  tent  and  that  I  didn't  have  to  go  back  after  the  knap¬ 
sack.  Tackling  the  ridge  twice  in  one  day  would  have  been  a  little  too 
much. 

"We  can  forage,"  said  Ginger,  "though  for  what,  I  don't  know.  Pine 
trees,  no  water,  and  I  haven't  even  seen  a  bird  on  this  ridge.  We  have 
enough  food  for  supper,  and  tomorrow  we  will  surely  find  the  canyon  the 
boys  told  us  to  look  for." 

We  got  a  little  water  by  spreading  the  tent  under  bushes  and  shaking 
the  branches,  then  draining  the  water  off  into  the  kettle. 

All  the  next  day  we  walked  along  the  ridge,  and  still  no  water.  Every 
half  mile,  or  so  it  seemed,  there  were  new  difficulties. 

In  one  place  the  ridge  was  blocked  for  over  a  mile  by  a  great  maze  of 
spider  webs.  In  the  centre  of  each  web  was  a  huge,  brilliantly  coloured  spider. 
We  cut  long  sticks  and  beat  a  passage  through  them.  In  other  places  large 
patches  of  bushes  with  dagger-like  thorns  forced  us  to  detour  down  the 
side  of  the  ridge,  where  we  slipped  and  clawed  for  footholds  along  the 
steep  faces  of  the  cliffs.  Towards  evening  the  ridge  flattened  out  and  we 
found  ourselves  on  the  edge  of  a  great  plateau,  densely  wooded  and  cov¬ 
ered  with  a  heavy  growth  of  razor-edged  grass. 

We  stopped  and  debated  our  course — whether  to  plunge  into  the  tiger 
grass  and  take  a  chance  on  reaching  a  stream,  or  make  camp  on  the  edge  of 
it  and  continue  on  in  the  morning  when  we  could  at  least  see.  Our  tongues 
were  beginning  to  swell.  Two  dry  camps  in  succession  held  no  appeal  for  us. 


127 


Jungle  Rhythm 

"Hell!"  I  said.  "Let's  start  whacking  through  this  stuff.  If  we  can't  get 
through  we  will  just  have  to  roost  in  a  tree  until  morning." 

"Listen,  I  think  I  hear - " 

I  heard  it  too  and  then  we  could  both  smell  it — water!  It  was  somewhere 
to  the  left  of  us. 

Cutting  to  the  left,  we  came  to  a  little  stream.  Our  first  impulse  was  to 
lie  down  and  lap  it  up,  but  we  merely  filled  our  mouths  with  water  until 
the  swelling  of  our  tongues  was  reduced. 

Ginger  started  a  fire  while  I  took  her  twenty-two  and  went  to  look  for 
something  to  fill  our  very  empty  stomachs.  As  I  stumbled  up  the  stream 
bed  in  the  almost  pitch-black  night,  I  wondered  just  what  kind  of  a  damn 
fool  I  was.  Even  if  I  did  see  something  to  shoot  at,  I  couldn’t  see  the 
sights  on  the  gun  well  enough  to  get  a  bead  on  it.  Everything  except  the 
night  prowlers  had  bedded  down  for  the  night  or  gone  to  roost.  "Roost" — 
now  that  might  be  a  good  idea. 

Looking  up  at  the  great  trees,  I  could  dimly  make  out  the  outlines  of 
their  branches  against  the  sky.  "Now,"  I  thought,  "if  I  could  just  find 
a  bird."  I  stumbled  along,  peering  intently  at  each  tree  within  my  field 
of  vision.  Finally  I  did  see  a  bulge.  I  worked  my  way  under  the  tree  and 
tried  to  line  up  the  sights.  I  couldn't  even  see  them,  let  alone  draw  a  bead. 

Before  we  had  started  on  our  trip  we  had  spent  six  months  training 
ourselves  to  fire  blind,  and  I  had  been  fairly  good  in  practice.  So  far,  how¬ 
ever,  I  had  had  no  occasion  to  prove  my  ability. 

I  pointed  the  gun  as  accurately  as  I  could  and  pulled  the  trigger.  There 
was  a  faint  squawk.  Well,  at  least  it  was  a  bird.  I  fired  again,  with  the 
same  result.  The  gnawing  hunger  in  my  stomach  steadied  my  nerves  and 
my  resolution.  I  would  get  that  bird.  I  closed  my  eyes  tightly,  hoping  to 
enlarge  the  pupils  so  that  they  could  absorb  sufficient  light  to  line  up  the 
sights.  On  the  twentieth  count  I  opened  my  eyes,  aimed  and  fired.  The 
oird  tumbled  down. 

Picking  my  way  to  where  it  had  fallen,  I  found  I'd  bagged — it  could  as 
easily  have  been  an  owl  or  a  buzzard — a  wild  turkey.  I  let  out  a  war  whoop 
and  started  for  camp.  Ginger  met  me  halfway  with  the  big  Luger  in  her 
hand. 

"Why  were  you  yelling?  I  thought  a  tiger  had  jumped  on  you,"  she 
cried. 

"No,"  I  said,  trying  to  act  as  if  turkeys  had  been  our  daily  portion  for 
days  past,  "I  just  got  a  turkey." 

While  we  were  broiling  the  bird  Ginger  got  up  from  the  ground  and 
stood  listening. 

"What  do  you  hear?"  I  whispered. 

"Drums!"  she  whispered  back. 

Again  the  jungle  was  silenced  by  that  strange  throbbing  rhythm.  You 
felt  it  even  more  than  you  heard  it.  It  was  like  a  nerve  beat.  It  seemed  to 


128  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

permeate  the  air.  We  were  never  entirely  able  to  dismiss  the  effect  of 
this  vibration  upon  our  minds  and  bodies,  for  we  were  to  hear  it  many, 
many  times  in  the  months  to  come.  We  can  offer  no  explanation  as  to 
what  it  was,  where  it  came  from,  or  who  produced  it.  We  called  it  drums 
for  want  of  another  name,  but  we  do  not  know. 

Ginger  moved  uneasily  about  the  fire.  I  realized  that  her  nerves  wTere 
on  edge.  I  sat  down  and  tried  to  reason  away  her  fears  and  my  own.  Self- 
preservation  was  our  first  concern,  but  we  had  not  come  this  far  by  being 
afraid  of  what  might  happen.  We  had  not  crippled  our  efficiency  by  being 
afraid  of  possible  storms  at  sea,  so  why  fear  the  unforeseen  in  the  jungle? 
Our  only  salvation  lay  in  studying  the  jungle,  in  adapting  ourselves  to  it 
and  learning  to  understand  it.  We  would  have  to  become  an  integral  part 
of  the  life  of  the  country.  Life  was  hazardous  whether  we  were  driving  in 
heavy  traffic,  riding  out  a  storm  at  sea,  or  camping  in  tropical  forests. 

We  both  felt  better  after  this  and  began  to  think  of  the  immediate  phys¬ 
ical  problem  of  hunger. 

“Won't  this  turkey  ever  get  done?"  Ginger  complained. 

“I'm  so  hungry  that  I  could  eat  five  turkeys  as  big  as  that  one,''  I  told 
her,  “but  here's  an  idea." 

I  split  some  of  the  pitch-pine  wood  into  thin  strips  and  bound  them  to¬ 
gether  with  grass  and  lit  one  end.  With  this  improvised  torch  we  started 
up  the  creek.  It  wasn't  a  very  good  light,  but  by  its  aid  we  managed  to 
pick  up  a  dozen  crawfish. 

The  banquet  we  finally  sat  down  to  seemed  fit  for  a  king.  The  mysteri¬ 
ous  jungle  was  still  round  us,  but  we  had  lost  the  sense  of  menace.  We 
sat  by  the  fire  contentedly  until  big  raindrops  drove  us  to  the  comparative 
comfort  of  the  pup  tent  for  a  sound  night's  rest — the  first  since  leaving  the 
lagoon. 

All  the  next  day  we  cut  our  way  along  the  stream  bed,  which  led  us  at 
length  to  a  wide  valley  densely  covered  with  jungle  grow  th. 

Our  camp  that  night  was  by  the  stream.  The  next  morning  we  started 
up  a  long,  narrow,  cliff-flanked  canyon.  It  w'as  difficult  going.  Late  that 
afternoon  a  great  tree-covered  plateau  opened  out  before  us.  Except  for 
the  heavy  vines,  it  was  like  an  immense  park,  an  entirely  different  kind  of 
country  from  any  that  we  had  yet  seen. 

Towards  sundown  we  climbed  a  small  solitary  hill  off  to  the  left,  to  see 
if  we  could  get  an  idea  of  the  surrounding  country.  It  was  the  first  oppor¬ 
tunity  we  had  had,  since  reaching  the  plateau,  to  get  above  the  level  of  the 
plain.  Our  hopes  of  finding  any  ruins  were  scant.  The  directions  had  been 
too  vague  and  indefinite. 

There  was  nothing  to  be  seen  from  the  hill  but  the  great  plateau  below 
us,  which  seemed  an  unbroken  sea  of  green.  We  started  back  down  its 
steep  slope,  for  it  was  late  and  we  had  not  yet  secured  food  for  supper 
nor  found  a  camp  site. 


129 


Jungle  Rhythm 

“Don't  you  think  it’s  rather  odd  that  this  one  little  hill  should  rise  so 
abruptly  from  a  level  plain?"  Ginger  asked. 

I  had  been  thinking  the  same  thing,  as  I  peered  through  the  thick  growth 
at  its  slanting  sides.  I  stopped  and  began  to  reconnoitre. 

“Holy  Smoke!  Look,  Ginger.  This  isn’t  a  hill  at  all — it’s  a  pyramid.  The 
sides  of  it  are  flat  and  it  forms  an  almost  perfect  rectangle."  1  was  con¬ 
siderably  excited. 

“It  is  shaped  like  a  pyramid,  but  it's  all  covered  up  with  dirt,"  said 
Ginger  doubtfully. 

“Naturally,"  I  answered.  “It  has  been  here  so  long  that  the  humus  de¬ 
posited  on  it  has  simply  covered  it  up.  We'll  explore  the  whole  place 
tomorrow.  ‘The  great  city’  must  be  somewhere  nearby." 

The  next  morning  we  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  pyramid  again  to  get 
cur  bearings  well  in  mind,  and  then  started  out  on  a  circle  round  the 
plateau.  On  the  southern  arc  of  the  circle  we  encountered  nothing  of  in¬ 
terest.  Noon  found  us  back  by  the  stream  again,  about  two  miles  from 
where  we  had  camped  the  previous  night. 

During  our  morning  trek  we  found  a  great  variety  of  fruits  and  berries. 
Some  of  them  were  unfamiliar  to  us,  but  we  sampled  them  anyway.  Our 
e  xperience  with  unknown  fruits  had  shown  us  that,  while  there  are  no  sign 
posts  to  tell  you  which  are  edible,  there  are  a  number  of  indications  which, 
if  heeded,  will  keep  you  out  of  trouble.  All  edible  berries  have  a  pleasant 
taste  and  smell.  We  ate  sparingly  of  the  unfamiliar  things  until  we  had  a 
chance  to  observe  their  effects.  The  results  are  seldom  drastic.  A  bad  taste 
in  your  mouth,  hiccups,  or  a  mild  interior  disturbance  tells  the  story.  By 
such  experiments  we  found  a  variety  of  new  foods. 

Since  we  were  not  hungry,  we  stayed  by  the  stream  only  long  enough 
t  o  wash  off  the  morning’s  accumulation  of  insects  and  grime,  then  started 
on  the  circle  to  the  north.  It  had  begun  to  rain,  but  by  now  we  regarded 
rain  as  more  of  a  help  than  a  hindrance,  so  we  kept  on  going. 

After  we  had  gone  only  a  short  distance,  perhaps  half  a  mile,  we  came 
upon  great  mounds  and  what  looked  like  the  remains  of  an  ancient  wall 
thickly  overlaid  with  vines  and  humus. 

Eagerly  we  started  slashing  our  way  towards  them,  then  stopped  and 
stared  at  each  other.  The  jungle  round  us  had  begun  to  throb  again  with 
that  mysterious  vibration.  Under  the  circumstances,  it  almost  froze  our 
blood.  We  racked  our  brains  for  some  natural  cause  of  the  phenomenon. 
We  both  agreed  that  it  lacked  the  sharp  explosive  quality  of  thunder. 

“Could  it  be  the  roar  of  the  ocean  against  the  sounding  boards  of  those 
limestone  cliffs?"  asked  Ginger. 

“I  don’t  think  so,"  I  answered.  “If  it  were,  we  should  hear  it  constantly. 
This  sound  is  intermittent." 

We  had  seen  no  evidences  of  recent  human  habitation,  no  man-made 


ISO  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

trails.  There  simply  wasn't  any  explanation.  We  hesitated  and  then  went 
on. 

Parts  of  the  ancient  walls  surrounding  the  city  were  still  in  place.  They  were 
cut  from  hard  limestone  blocks  of  considerable  size,  fitted  and  set  together 
without  mortar.  The  walls  became  higher  and  formed  extensive  rectangles 
as  we  neared  the  centre  of  the  city. 

We  tried  to  determine  the  nature  of  the  carvings  on  many  of  the  stones, 
but  they  were  so  weathered  that  one  could  only  guess  at  what  the  bas- 
reliefs  had  been  originally. 

The  great  mounds  were  everywhere,  but  so  thickly  overgrown  with 
vines  that  it  was  difficult  to  do  more  than  observe  them  from  a  distance. 
Occasionally  we  came  to  what  appeared  to  be  an  entrance,  so  choked  with 
fallen  stones  and  debris  that  we  made  no  attempt  to  penetrate  it. 

"Listen,  Dan." 

I  stopped. 

"It  sounds  like  chanting,"  Ginger  said. 

"But  there  are  no - " 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  know  that,  too.  Let's  go  on." 

An  ancient  roadway  led  to  the  base  of  a  great  hill  just  north  of  the  city. 
The  road  soon  became  too  difficult  to  follow  so  we  abandoned  it  and  took 
a  zigzag  course  through  the  ruins.  This  finally  brought  us  to  the  base  of 
the  great  hill. 

We  began  the  ascent.  As  we  neared  the  top  we  could  see  the  walls  of  a 
great  temple.  Out  on  the  point  of  the  hill  facing  east,  was  what  seemed  to 
be  a  limestone  sacrificial  altar.  It  was  of  cut  stone  about  eight  feet  long 
and  five  feet  wide,  and  clean  and  free  from  debris  of  any  kind.  Don't  ask 
us  why.  We  don't  know. 

We  stood  silently  looking  down  on  the  scene  below  us  for  a  long  time. 
The  slanting  rays  of  the  sun  had  turned  the  jungle-covered  mounds  into  a 
checkerboard  of  light  and  shadow.  We  felt  alien,  small  and  insignificant 
beside  these  evidences  of  ruined  grandeur  and  magnificence.  I  shivered, 
but  I  did  not  want  to  go. 

"I  would  like  to  stay  here  all  night  and  build  a  fire  on  that  altar  stone," 
I  said. 

"Do  you  think  we  dare?"  Ginger  was  anxious  and  did  not  try  to  conceal 
it.  "I  have  had  a  definite  feeling  all  day  that  some  one  is  watching  us. 
Suppose  they  see  a  fire  on  that  stone?  It  would  be  a  beacon  for  miles 
round.  And  suppose  they  don't  like  it?" 

"Well,  suppose  they  are  watching  us,"  I  contended.  "They  know  that 
we  have  touched  nothing  and  that  we  have  respected  their  feelings  about 
this  place.  There  can  be  no  greater  harm  in  staying  here  than  anywhere 
else." 

She  raised  no  further  objections.  We  set  up  camp  and  gathered  materials 
for  a  fire,  which  throughout  the  night  blazed  upon  the  great  altar  stone. 


131 


Jungle  Rhythm 

The  effect  of  such  an  experience  is  indescribable.  We  seemed  to  have 
brushed  aside  time’s  limitations.  The  past  and  present  were  telescoped. 
The  mind  was  able  to  recapture  images  as  though  it  were  not  subject  to 
the  restrictions  of  space  and  matter.  I  do  not  tell  you  that  we  saw  with 
our  physical  eyes,  or  heard  with  our  finite  ears,  these  evocations  of  the 
past.  It  was  rather  an  awareness  not  dependent  upon  either  of  these  usual 
instruments  of  sense  perception. 

We  sat  utterly  still.  The  silence  was  broken  only  by  the  sharp  staccato 
of  the  fire's  explosions;  then,  far  off,  insistent,  vibrant,  that  rhythmic  mono¬ 
tone. 

“Oojah,”  I  whispered.  "Do  you  hear  it?" 

Ginger  nodded. 

We  began  talking  in  low  tones  of  these  prehistoric  peoples,  and  of  the 
magnificence  of  their  achievements.  With  no  beasts  of  burden  they  had 
evolved  architectural  masterpieces  in  stone.  With  none  of  the  scientific  aids 
of  which  we  are  so  proud,  they  became  expert  astronomers.  They  were 
mathematicians,  skilled  craftsmen,  artists  in  metals,  weaving,  pottery,  and 
wood  and  stone  carving. 

Expert  agronomists,  they  discovered  and  developed  corn,  cacao,  pota¬ 
toes,  beans,  peanuts,  melons,  squashes,  tobacco,  and  hemp.  We  owe  to 
them  such  drugs  and  spices  as  quinine,  cocaine,  vanilla,  and  innumerable 
other  things  which  they  had  cultivated  and  bred  for  so  long  that  countless 
varieties  had  been  developed  years  before  the  first  white  man  ever  set  foot 
in  the  Western  World. 

They  were  skilled  in  the  use  of  medicines  and  were  competent  doctors, 
surgeons,  and  dentists. 

They  built  roads  out  of  asphalt,  as  we  do,  and  knew  how  to  vulcanize 
rubber.  They  had  an  exact  calendar  and  a  written  language  when  our  an¬ 
cestors  were  painting  themselves  blue  and  wearing  ox  horns  on  their  heads. 

"Does  any  one  know  where  they  came  from — just  who  they  were?" 
Ginger  asked. 

"Not  for  certain,"  I  answered.  "There  are  many  theories,  but  few  proofs. 
Anthropologists  say  that  they  came  from  Asia  by  crossing  the  Bering  Sea. 
That  doesn’t  account  for  the  sculptured  stone  elephants  found  in  Panama, 
though.  The  man  who  made  those  elephants  had  seen  one.  Many  of  the 
Indians  we  have  seen  on  this  trip  look  like  Egyptians  or  Polynesians,  instead 
of  like  Mongols,  as  they  would  if  they  were  northern  Asiatics." 

"Is  there  enough  evidence  to  prove  that  they  came  from  Europe  or 
Africa?" 

“No,"  I  said,  "there  isn’t.  They  would  have  understood  the  principle 
of  the  wheel,  which  they  apparently  did  not  use,  and  they  would  in  all 
likelihood  have  brought  plants  and  animals  with  them  which  are  indigenous 
to  Africa  and  Europe.  The  Spaniards  found  neither. 

"There  is  another  story  at  which  scientists  scoff,  but  it  could  account 


132  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

for  the  fact  that  they  brought  nothing  from  the  Old  World  with  them. 
That  is  the  legend  of  the  lost  continents  in  the  Pacific  and  the  Atlantic — 
Mu  and  Atlantis.  Atlantis  was  supposedly  destroyed  by  some  great  con¬ 
vulsion  of  nature.  No  one,  under  such  circumstances,  would  delay  long 
enough  to  collect  seeds  or  bring  livestock/* 

We  wondered  what  clues  to  that  mystery  the  jungle  concealed.  Were 
those  ancient  men  and  women  who  had  stood  before  this  very  altar  Aztec 
or  Toltec,  Indian  or  non-Indian,  or  representatives  of  races  now  unknown 
to  man?  Where  had  they  come  from — why  did  they  go?  What  had  Thurs¬ 
day  meant  when  he  said,  “Which  they  had  placed  in  our  keeping?** 

These  are  questions  yet  to  be  answered,  but  not  by  us. 

The  next  morning  we  left  the  hill  and  started  back  in  the  direction  from 
which  we  had  come.  No  one  approached  us,  nor  were  we  in  any  way 
molested,  but  we  still  had  the  feeling  that  we  were  being  watched. 

The  trip  back  to  our  base  camp  was  a  repetition  of  our  trip  coming  in, 
except  that  our  shoes  had  worn  out,  and  the  rains  had  made  the  slopes  so 
slippery  that  most  of  the  time  we  slid,  sitting  down  and  using  our  feet  for 
brakes.  Late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day,  dog-tired  and  covered  with 
cuts  and  bruises,  we  limped  into  camp.  It  was  a  mess.  Despite  our  pre¬ 
cautions,  ants  and  small  animals  had  gotten  into  everything. 


Chapter  Fifteen 


THEY  DO  IT  DIFFERENTLY  IN  HOLLYWOOD 

We  had  seen  many  motion  picture  versions,  and  had  read  stories  of 
alligator  hunting.  Consequently  we  felt  that  we  knew  how  to  go 
about  the  business.  There  were,  according  to  these  authorities,  several 
methods  of  attack.  The  most  highly  recommended,  as  I  remember  it,  was 
to  fasten  a  stick,  sharpened  at  both  ends,  on  to  a  long  handle,  forming  a 
T-square.  With  this  in  your  hand,  you  quietly  approached  the  unsuspecting 
alligator,  who  dropped  its  jaw — no  doubt  in  amazement — at  sight  of  you. 
Seizing  this  opportunity,  you  thrust  the  sharpened  stick  down  the  alliga¬ 
tor’s  throat;  whereupon  the  animal  shut  its  jaws,  thereby  pinning  them 
together — and  you  had  your  alligator!  Nice  work. 

In  case  this  method  did  not  appeal  to  your  sense  of  sportsmanship, 
Hollywood  gave  you  an  alternative.  The  second  procedure  differed  from 
the  first,  in  that  you  immediately  jumped  upon  the  alligator’s  back,  and 
firmly  grasping  each  jaw,  pried  its  mouth  open — holding  the  jaws  well 
apart — until  a  confederate  had  time  to  shove  a  log  between  its  teeth.  The 
alligator,  unaware  of  the  significance  of  this  manoeuvre,  obligingly 
clamped  its  jaws  upon  the  log — and  you  had  your  alligator!  There  was,  of 
course,  the  less  spectacular  method  of  shooting  them,  but  judging  from  the 
pictured  versions  this  was  seldom  done  in  Hollywood. 

We  paddled  slowly  and  quietly  up  the  lagoon,  but  each  alligator  we 
sighted  slid  into  the  water  before  we  could  draw  our  guns.  In  the  pictures, 
we  had  seen  canoes  paddling  down  lagoons  with  alligators  swarming 
round  them.  These  alligators  must  have  lacked  the  fearlessness  of  the 
Hollywood  variety,  because  we  couldn’t  get  within  one  hundred  yards  of 
them.  Huge  ones  sunned  themselves  on  the  banks,  but  invariably  dis¬ 
appeared  into  the  water  at  our  approach.  I  got  one  shot  at  a  big  fellow 
sleeping  on  a  bank,  but  apparently  did  him  no  damage,  for  he  too  slid  into 
the  water  to  rejoin  his  friends. 

At  this  point  the  lagoon  narrowed  down  to  a  small  channel  choked  with 
fallen  logs.  Here  an  alligator  was  swimming  under  wrater.  I  grabbed  the 
harpoon,  and  scrambling  to  the  how,  launched  it  with  all  my  force.  The 
shaft  bobbed  sideways,  then  shot  up  the  lagoon,  cutting  the  water  so  fast 
it  fairly  sang.  The  line  grew  taut  with  a  jerk  that  nearly  took  the  canoe 
out  from  under  me.  I  catapulted  down  on  top  of  Ginger,  reaching  out  in 
all  directions  for  hand  and  toe  holds. 


1 34  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

While  we  were  untangling  ourselves,  the  line  went  slack.  I  bounced 
back  to  the  bow  and  began  pulling  it  in.  Then  things  began  to  happen.  A 
great  tail  flashed  through  the  air,  slapped  the  canoe  just  once — and  we 
were  in  the  water  swimming  madly  to  retrieve  it.  I  reached  up  to  grasp 
the  gunwale,  but  the  canoe  was  jerked  out  of  my  fingers  and  went  skim¬ 
ming  merrily  up  the  lagoon,  towed  by  the  drunkenly  waving  harpoon 
shaft.  Weighted  down  by  our  gun  belts,  we  shipped  a  lot  of  dirty  lagoon 
water  before  we  finally  reached  the  shore,  to  find  the  canoe  nowhere  in 
sight. 

“ A  fine  pair  of  alligator  hunters  we’ve  turned  out  to  be!”  I  said  dis¬ 
gustedly.  “They  certainly  do  these  things  better  in  Hollywood,  or  maybe 
that  'gator  doesn’t  know  the  rules.  He  not  only  dumps  us,  but  steals  the 
canoe  as  well.  We’d  better  get  it  back  before  he  decides  to  chew  it  into 
kindling  wood.” 

“Yes,  and  the  fun  starts  from  now  on,”  Ginger  remarked.  “It  ought  to 
be  a  picnic  going  through  this  place  barefoot.”  For  our  huar aches  were  in 
the  canoe. 

We  ploughed  through  the  dense  growth,  scrambling  over,  under,  and 
round  fallen  trees,  weaving  through  thick  growths  of  palm.  It  was  im¬ 
possible  to  hurry.  We  had  to  scan  the  ground  at  every  step;  or  take  the 
chance  of  being  bitten  by  a  snake,  centipede,  or  scorpion.  At  every  oppor¬ 
tunity  we  worked  down  to  the  water’s  edge,  hoping  for  a  sight  of  the 
canoe.  Finally  we  sighted  her,  lodged  among  the  branches  of  a  fallen  tree 
on  the  far  side  of  the  lagoon. 

“Now  we  are  in  a  mess!”  I  said,  surveying  the  hundred  yards  of  muddy 
water  that  separated  us  from  the  canoe.  “I’ll  have  to  swim  for  it” 

“You'll  do  no  such  thing,  Dan  Lamb.  I  won't  let  you.  I’ve  no  desire  to 
become  a  widow.” 

Ahead  and  behind  us  the  lagoon  widened  out.  With  its  many  branches, 
the  distance  was  at  least  fifty  miles  by  way  of  the  ocean  to  the  other  side. 
My  machete,  as  well  as  our  huaraches ,  was  in  the  canoe.  With  the  machete, 
we  might  have  cut  logs  and  built  a  raft;  without  it  there  was  no  choice. 
I  took  off  my  gun  belt  and  handed  it  to  Ginger.  “Take  the  Luger  and 
shoot  round  me  while  I  swim  across.  That  will  discourage  any  alligators 
hanging  round.” 

“I’m  not  sure  that  I'm  a  good  enough  shot  with  your  gun.  I  haven't 
used  it  enough,”  she  objected. 

“That’s  all  right,”  I  assured  her.  “Just  keep  your  nerve  and  a  steady 
hand.  Place  your  shots  on  each  side  of  me,  but  please  don’t  place  them 
behind  me,  because  they’re  liable  to  ricochet.” 

Before  taking  off,  I  climbed  as  far  out  as  I  could  get  on  a  branch  hanging 
over  the  water.  “A  steady  hand;  and  remember,  I’m  not  an  alligator.” 
Then  I  dived. 

This  is  one  way  to  break  all  existing  swimming  records.  Ginger  pep- 


. 


_ 


137 


They  Do  It  Differently  in  Hollywood 

pered  the  water  with  slugs,  while  I  made  for  the  canoe.  Something  smacked 
my  sore  leg  as  I  pulled  myself  up  on  deck.  Pushing  the  canoe  out  from  the 
entangling  branches,  I  gave  the  harpoon  line  on  the  bow  a  vicious  yank. 
There  was  a  violent  commotion  among  the  fallen  logs,  where  the  alligator 
had  become  entangled;  but  I  had  no  gun  with  which  to  deliver  a  coup  de 
grace.  I  pulled  in  on  the  line  until  I  was  close  to  him.  His  huge  jaws  came 
out  of  the  water  with  a  snap  that  made  me  back  away  in  a  hurry.  Tying 
the  harpoon  line  to  a  tree  instead  of  the  bow,  I  paddled  over  to  Ginger. 

Our  clips  and  guns  reloaded,  we  again  approached  the  thoroughly  an¬ 
gered  alligator.  Another  tug  on  the  line  brought  frantic  splashings  as  we 
both  pumped  lead  into  the  swirling  water.  A  great  tail  lashed  out,  and 
then  all  was  silent.  Further  tugging  on  the  line  brought  no  response.  With 
extreme  caution,  we  pulled  over  to  the  bobbing  harpoon  shaft.  Gun  in  hand, 
I  reached  over  and  wiggled  it.  It  was  loose — the  alligator  had  got  away. 
While  I  untangled  the  line  from  the  branches,  we  expressed  our  opinions 
of  people  who  knew  how  alligator  hunting  should  be  done.  We  had  lost 
our  faith  in  Hollywood. 

On  our  way  back  to  camp  we  shot  two  ducks  and  an  iguana.  In  camp, 
land  crabs  by  the  hundreds  were  swarming  over  everything.  Ginger  picked 
up  a  stick  but  I  stopped  her  before  she  had  a  chance  to  kill  one.  Dead  land 
crabs  would  attract  scores  of  hermit  crabs  and  ants  as  well.  We  built  a  fire 
and  tried  to  discourage  them  with  blazing  faggots.  They  were  completely 
indifferent  and  continued  their  search  for  food.  Now  and  then  one  would 
nip  us  on  the  foot. 

“What  on  earth  are  we  going  to  do?"  asked  Ginger.  “There’s  no  per¬ 
centage  in  playing  ring-around-a-rosy  any  longer.” 

I  agreed,  but  reminded  her  that  if  we  moved  the  camp,  the  crabs  would 
undoubtedly  move  with  us.  My  suggestion  was  that  we  go  down  to  the 
canoe  and  sit  in  it.  We  could  build  a  fire  on  the  wet  sand  and  cook  our 
supper.  I  would  place  a  pile  of  wood  within  reach  of  the  canoe  so  that 
later  we  could  feed  the  fire  without  leaving  it.  This  procedure  gave  us  a 
short  respite  but  before  we’d  finished  eating  the  second  invasion  began. 
So  we  set  the  grub  box  on  deck  and  retreated  to  the  cockpit. 

After  supper  we  got  out  the  charts  and  studied  them.  The  stretch  of 
coast  before  us  was  unattractive.  With  the  exception  of  Tequepa  Bay,  one 
day’s  travel  away,  there  was  no  shelter  between  our  present  position  and 
Acapulco — and  it  was  rumoured  that  the  port  authorities  there  were  not 
too  friendly  towards  penniless  gringos.  Ginger,  however,  said  she  had  a 
hunch  that  we  would  have  no  trouble  there. 

“ Quien  sabe ?”  I  answered.  “What  worries  me  is  getting  there.  It's  one 
hundred  and  fifty  miles  the  way  we  travel,  and  the  stormy  weather  isn’t 
over  yet.  It  says  in  the  Pilot  Guide,  ‘Boat  landing  along  this  stretch  of  coast 
is  almost  impossible  as  there  is  always  a  heavy  surf.'” 

“In  the  meantime,”  Ginger  suggested,  “since  we  have  an  easy  day’s 


138  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

sailing  tomorrow,  we  might  as  well  sing  while  we're  marooned."  As  I 
reached  for  the  corroded  harmonica,  I  asked  her  what  she  meant  by  "ma¬ 
rooned."  "Oh,  a  bit  of  wood  and  canvas  completely  surrounded  by  crabs," 
she  answered.  "Let's  sing  them  a  song;  they  might  like  to  dance." 

We  sang  "Red  River  Valley"  to  an  orchestral  accompaniment  of  boom¬ 
ing  surf,  and  the  swish-swish  of  the  waves  upon  the  sand.  An  occasional 
high  soprano  note  from  the  jungle  told  us  that  a  near-by  jaguar  had  joined 
the  "community  sing." 

The  next  morning  we  sailed  down  to  Tequepa  Bay.  It  was  a  grand  day 
for  sailing,  with  just  enough  wind  to  make  the  Vagabunda  prick  up  her  ears. 
We  skipped  along  outside  the  breaker  line,  admiring  the  beauty  of  the 
steep  sand  banks,  the  waving  coco  palms,  and  the  jungle-covered  hills  in 
the  background. 

In  the  late  afternoon  we  came  to  a  small  island  called  Morro  de  las 
Animas,  and  stopped  there  for  two  days  to  prepare  food  and  distil  water 
for  the  long  jump  ahead.  We  left  the  island  in  a  dead  calm,  and  sweated  at 
the  paddles  until  noon.  When  we  stopped  to  rest  and  eat,  we  were  dis¬ 
appointed  at  the  small  progress  we  had  made.  During  the  meal  a  small 
breeze  came  up,  but  the  horizon  to  the  south  did  not  look  too  good.  We 
hoisted  sail  and  went  on,  making  very  poor  time.  Watching  the  mountain 
peaks  inshore,  I  discovered  that  we  were  barely  advancing.  Ginger  took 
the  news  calmly. 

"What  of  it?  We  aren't  going  any  place,  so  who  cares?"  She  got  out 
her  sewing  and  settled  back  in  the  cockpit. 

I  wanted  to  turn  back  and  make  the  attempt  on  another  day,  for  I  felt 
uneasy,  and  didn't  like  the  look  of  the  horizon. 

"Nonsense!"  said  Ginger.  "We're  just  as  well  off  here  as  we'd  be  with 
those  land  crabs.  Sit  down  and  play  your  harmonica  and  quit  fussing. 
You're  always  becoming  upset  over  horizons." 

I  knew  a  good  comeback  to  that.  What  about  the  time  I’d  wanted  to 
land,  and  she  had  insisted  upon  sailing  all  night?  But  there  was  no  use  in 
starting  a  quarrel.  Damn  women  anyway!  One  minute  they  were  all  for 
you;  the  next  they  were  more  interested  in  sewing  than  in  getting  to 
Acapulco.  I  got  out  my  notebook  and  began  to  read.  When  I  had  finished 
Ginger  looked  up  and  smiled.  "I'm  sorry  that  I’m  cross  today.  If  you  want 
to  turn  back,  it's  all  right  with  me." 

I  answered  sulkily  that  we’d  keep  right  on.  It  was  a  twenty-four-hour 
run  in  any  event,  and  with  luck,  we  might  find  a  landing  tomorrow.  To 
dissipate  my  growing  irritation,  I  picked  up  the  paddle  and  bent  over  it, 
hoping  by  work  to  avoid  further  argument.  "So  this  is  adventuring,"  I 
thought,  as  the  sweat  streamed  off'  my  body,  making  a  little  puddle  where 
I  perched  on  deck.  Ginger  just  sat  and  sewed. 

"Can't  you  change  the  course  a  little,  so  I’ll  be  in  the  shade?"  she 
asked. 


139 


They  Do  It  Differently  in  Hollywood 

"Anything  you  say,"  I  answered.  "We,  as  you've  reminded  me,  aren't 
getting  any  place  anyway,  so  it  doesn’t  matter  which  way  I  steer." 

When  the  sun  touched  the  horizon  the  wind  stopped  altogether.  "Now 
what?"  I  asked. 

"It's  time  to  eat.  You  might  as  well  lower  the  sail,"  Ginger  said. 

"You  don't  seem  very  interested  in  the  weather,  do  you?  Well,  if  this 
calm  means  what  I  think  it  means,  you're  going  to  be  a  lot  more  interested 
before  morning,  my  friend.  You'd  better  tuck  your  sewing  where  it  won't 
get  wet." 

"I've  got  good  reasons  for  sewing,"  Ginger  retorted.  "When  you  feel 
like  biting  some  one  it’s  best  to  keep  busy.  We  haven’t  been  out  of  each 
other’s  sight  for  a  whole  year.  Most  of  that  time  we've  been  pretty  cheerful 
whether  we  felt  like  it  or  not.  Don't  you  think  it  would  be  a  good  idea  to 
have  a  first-rate  scrap  and  get  it  out  of  our  systems?" 

"Sure!"  I  agreed.  "Let's  sit  here  and  say  nasty  things.  Or  how  about  a 
good  fight  in  the  water? — at  least  it  would  wash  the  sweat  off." 

Ginger  dived  overboard  and  I  followed  her.  "You  asked  for  it!"  she 
said  as  she  shoved  me  under. 

We  had  a  royal  battle.  As  I  dived  deep  to  grab  her  feet,  I  saw  below  me 
a  dark  shape  that  gradually  turned  to  white.  I  clawed  the  surface.  "Sharks!" 
We  both  raced  for  the  canoe. 

"Beat  you,"  said  Ginger,  climbing  aboard  a  split  second  ahead  of  me, 
"I  feel  a  lot  better." 

"Because  you’re  out  of  the  water?" 

"Not  entirely  for  that  reason.  Mostly  because  I  needed  a  good  fight. 
How  would  you  like  to  eat?"  she  replied. 

We  ate  dried  turtle  meat  while  we  discussed  the  peculiar  problem  of 
human  temperament,  and  what  to  do  about  it — the  perfectly  natural  irri¬ 
tations  that  long  and  enforced  intimacy  produced.  After  that  we  laughed 
together  at  the  scowling  horizon.  Ginger  looked  at  it  speculatively.  "It 
might  be  a  good  idea  to  put  some  turtle  meat  in  our  pockets,  just  in  case 
we  daren’t  open  the  cockpit,"  she  suggested. 

I  asked  her  to  roll  me  a  cigarette  out  of  the  wild  tobacco  that  we  called 
"dynamite."  "The  more  I  smoke  these  things  the  more  inclined  I  am  to 
quit  smoking  entirely,"  I  said,  as  the  smoke  curled  everywhere  except  at 
the  mouthpiece. 

A  blast  of  wind  from  the  south  warned  us  to  reef  the  sail.  The  Vagabunda 
turned  from  shore,  her  gunwale  dipping  under  water  as  she  gathered  speed 
and  headed  out  to  sea.  We  asked  for  it;  and  we  certainly  got  it,  speeding 
in  a  jerky,  splashing  sprint  towards  the  ominous  blackness  off' shore.  Ginger 
curled  up  in  the  cockpit.  "I'm  not  saying  a  thing,"  she  said. 

While  she  tried  to  sleep,  I  wrestled  with  my  usual  problem:  how  to  keep 
out  of  the  breakers  inshore,  yet  not  tack  so  far  out  to  sea  that  the  current 
caught  us.  The  sky  was  so  overcast  that  I  couldn’t  find  a  star  to  go  by.  The 


140 


Enchanted  Vagabonds 

wind  had  changed,  but  I  couldn’t  be  sure  which  way,  or  how  much.  I  set 
sail  for  the  inshore  tack,  still  trying  to  get  directions,  and  keeping  an  eye 
out  for  the  breaker  line. 

The  ground  swell  was  heavy,  and  suddenly  a  great  sea  crashed  right  in 
front  of  the  canoe.  Then  I  knew  that  we  were  in  the  breakers.  I  put  my 
weight  on  the  paddle  to  swing  the  canoe  round,  while  Ginger  jumped  up 
to  the  halyards  to  lower  the  flapping  sail.  A  dark  shape  loomed  up  ahead 
of  us,  capped  by  a  glowing  line  of  phosphorescence.  A  thousand  tons  of 
snarling,  hissing  water  cast  itself  at  the  canoe.  The  bow  shot  skyward.  It 
knocked  Ginger  back  against  me.  I  would  have  gone  overboard  except  that 
her  weight  pinned  my  feet  in  the  cockpit.  Floundering  flat  on  my  back,  I 
tried  to  hold  on  to  the  paddle,  expecting  momentarily  to  feel  the  canoe 
crash  back  in  a  somersault.  Then  air  replaced  the  pounding,  swirling,  glow¬ 
ing  water,  and  I  knew  that  by  some  bit  of  luck  we  had  managed  to  get 
through. 

For  an  interminable  length  of  time  we  fought  in  the  breakers.  The  boom 
slipped  its  lashings,  knocking  me  on  the  head.  The  cockpit  was  full  of 
water.  I  fully  believed  that  we  had  reached  the  end  of  our  earthly  rope. 
But  meeting  each  onslaught  as  best  we  could,  we  somehow  managed  to  get 
the  canoe  out  into  the  comparative  safety  of  the  wind-swept  sea. 

Ginger  set  her  paddle  down  and  felt  for  the  bailing  can.  “It’s  gone,” 
she  said  mournfully. 

“Just  luck  that  we  didn’t  lose  everything,”  I  retorted. 

We  were  equally  responsible  for  our  present  fix — I  for  misjudging  the 
direction  of  the  wind,  Ginger  for  her  earlier  indifference  to  the  weather. 
Now  we  were  both  washed  out.  Ginger  sat  on  the  stern,  worn  out  and 
shivering,  while  I  tried  to  work  on  the  sail.  The  boom  had  broken  loose 
from  the  swivel  joint  at  the  mast,  and  the  grummets  of  the  sail  had  ripped 
loose  from  the  mast’s  sides.  We  pulled  the  canvas  cockpit  bag  up  on  deck, 
and  drained  out  the  water.  I  found  a  bit  of  fishline  to  repair  the  sail,  and 
we  were  off  once  more,  running  close  hauled  at  an  angle  off  the  coast. 

I  felt  in  my  pocket  for  the  turtle  meat.  It  had  been  washed  away,  so  I 
got  another  piece  out  of  the  grub  box.  Ginger  curled  up  again  in  the  cock¬ 
pit,  while  I  stayed  on  deck.  Soon  she  was  asleep  undisturbed  by  the  oc¬ 
casional  wave  that  washed  over  her.  I  settled  down  to  the  business  of 
sailing,  hoping  the  morning  star  would  soon  make  its  appearance. 

About  daylight  Ginger  began  to  toss  and  moan.  “Oh!”  she  said  as  she 
wakened,  “I’ve  had  the  most  horrible  dream — the  zipper  on  the  cockpit 
broke.  Dan,  if  that  ever  happens,  and  water  gets  into  the  canoe  during  one 
of  these  storms,  we’ll  be  on  the  bottom  before  we  know  it!” 

During  breakfast,  we  discussed  ways  and  means  of  preventing  the  na¬ 
tives  from  opening  and  closing  the  cockpit.  Everywhere  we  went  it  was 
one  of  their  special  pleasures,  and  it  was  nearly  worn  out.  After  the  meal, 
I  turned  in,  while  Ginger  skippered.  About  two  o’clock  I  woke  up  to  find 
that  she  had  hoisted  sail  and  was  making  fair  time  down  the  coast.  Then 


141 


They  Do  It  Differently  in  Hollywood 

she  slept  until  sundown,  when  I  wakened  her.  The  wind  had  increased, 
and  it  looked  like  another  night  at  sea  unless  we  picked  up  the  Acapulco 
light  soon.  Ginger  said  she  didn't  care  as  long  as  we  kept  at  sea.  “You've 
nothing  to  worry  about,''  I  said.  “By  the  looks  of  the  weather,  we'll  be  out 
of  sight  of  land  by  morning." 

The  evening  meal  consisted  of  more  turtle  meat,  flat  tasting  water,  and 
a  discussion  of  the  paradisaical  delights  of  T-bone  steak,  coffee  with  cream 
in  it,  and  chocolate  malted  milks.  The  turtle  meat,  we  reminded  each  other, 
was  adventuring. 

I  got  out  the  harmonica  and  began  to  play  an  old  sea  chanty.  The  wind 
dropped  and  the  sail  hung  slack.  On  the  far  horizon  we  could  see  the  light 
at  Acapulco,  blinking  at  us  in  derision.  Nothing  to  do  but  paddle.  We 
paddled  until  midnight.  At  2  a.m.,  while  I  was  contemplating  the  light 
that  refused  to  come  closer,  Ginger,  who  had  been  asleep,  woke  up  with 
the  announcement  that  we  were  going  to  have  a  storm.  I  sent  her  back  to 
sleep,  telling  her  that  I  would  waken  her  when  it  came.  I  paddled  on, 
wondering  if  the  skin  was  really  worn  off  my  backbone — or  merely  wear¬ 
ing  thin. 

Then  the  wind  came  up.  We  unreefed  the  sail,  and  tried  to  beat  the 
storm.  Quivering,  leaping,  bounding,  we  dashed  on,  with  the  storm  at  our 
heels.  Soon  we  could  faintly  see  the  islets  off  the  entrance  to  Acapulco 
harbour.  As  we  steered  towards  the  entrance,  I  saw  a  bay  south  of  the  harbour, 
and  headed  for  it.  We  were  in  no  condition  to  meet  the  officials  of  Acapulco. 

Marques  Bay  opened  its  sheltering  arms  to  us  as  the  Vagabunda  skidded 
round  the  headland  into  calm  water  and  to  the  sand  beach  that  lay  beyond. 
Curiously  enough  we  slept  on  our  stomachs  that  night.  On  awakening,  we 
were  not  pretty  sights.  Our  hair  hung  in  white  strings,  and  we  were 
crusted  with  salt  from  head  to  toe.  We  soaked  our  tired  bodies  in  the 
warm,  shallow  water,  then  swam  awhile  to  relieve  our  cramped  muscles. 
Dry  clothes  and  hot  coffee  made  us  feel  still  better.  Lying  in  the  shade  of 
the  tent  and  resting,  we  discussed  Acapulco.  Here,  we  could  manage,  but 
over  there  .  .  .  ? 

“It  would  be  fun,  if — "  said  Ginger  a  bit  wistfully. 

Acapulco  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  ports  in  Mexico,  and  I  knew  what 
she  was  thinking.  “Yes,  it  would  be  fun — if  we  had  a  peso  or  two  to  spend 
for  civilized  food,"  I  answered. 

We  gazed  in  the  direction  of  the  town,  and  thought  about  all  the  things 
a  town  could  mean:  bread  and  butter,  ice  cream,  canned  milk,  a  few  yards 
of  bright  coloured  cloth  to  make  a  new  dress  for  Ginger.  “If — ?"  But  we 
were  adventurers,  we  told  ourselves;  out  to  live  off  the  country;  to  make 
the  jungle  feed  and  clothe  us.  Anyway,  we  said,  Acapulco  was  a  tourist 
port;  people  wore  white  uniforms  and  pith  helmets.  We  bragged  a  little; 
we  didn't  need  civilization.  We  got  out  the  charts  and  looked  at  them.  The 
country  ahead  seemed  interesting.  If  we  could  get  past  Tartar  Shoals  with¬ 
out  any  trouble,  we  should  have  easy  sailing  from  there  to  Salina  Cruz. 


Chapter  Sixteen 


JUNGLE  GANGSTERS 


We  were  preparing  breakfast  the  next  morning  when  a  boat  manned 
by  men  in  white  uniforms  put  out  across  the  bay  and  headed  in  our 
direction.  That  meant  only  one  thing — customs  men.  To  be  found  camping 
here  before  officially  entering  the  port,  meant  trouble.  The  canoe,  partially 
loaded,  rode  at  anchor  near-by.  We  hastily  piled  the  rest  of  our  equipment, 
our  uneaten  breakfast,  the  pot  of  coffee,  the  grub  box,  and  ourselves  into 
it,  and  started  to  skirt  the  shore.  The  boat  changed  its  course  and  came 
after  us,  with  three  men  straining  at  its  oars. 

“Better  hoist  sail,  they're  gaining  on  us,"  1  said  to  Ginger,  while  I 
bent  to  the  paddles.  It  was  a  close  race  as  we  skimmed  out  of  the  little 
bay  and  rounded  Diamante  Point.  Away  from  its  shelter,  the  breeze  kicked 
us  along.  The  men  began  to  shout  at  us,  but  although  we  heard  their 
voices  the  words  were  unintelligible.  Soon  we  were  on  the  open  sea  and 
speeding  down  the  coast — our  pursuers  left  far  behind. 

We  laughed  as  we  ate  breakfast.  This  was  fun.  If  our  luck  continued, 
one  day  we  should  get  to  the  place  of  our  childhood  dreams — Cocos  Island, 
and  then  perhaps  to  Panama. 

Close  to  shore  the  reddish  water  was  full  of  sea  life.  Sharks  swam  by, 
little  green  and  orange  snakes  wriggled  out  of  our  path,  great  sea  turtles 
floated  lazily  on  the  surface,  and  a  school  of  dolphins  acted  as  our  escort. 
I  remembered  an  old  saying  of  the  sea,  “If  a  dolphin  follows  your  boat  it 
will  be  a  safe  passage."  I  dangled  a  rope  end  in  the  water  and  a  big  fellow 
came  up  to  see  if  it  was  good  to  eat. 

Dolphins,  to  us,  are  the  most  beautiful  fish  in  the  sea.  Their  streamlined 
bodies  are  swift  and  graceful.  They  have  a  chameleon-like  ability  to  change 
their  colour,  turning  from  green  to  blue  or  brown,  or  to  yellow  and  brown 
stripes,  their  fighting  colours.  The  two  fins  on  each  side  of  the  head  and 
the  long  sail  fin  which  extends  nearly  the  full  length  of  the  back  are  a 
bright  phosphorescent  blue.  Their  young  they  herded  under  the  canoe 
while  the  larger  fish  swam  in  guard  formation  on  all  sides  of  them.  Every 
so  often  the  young  dolphins  became  annoyed  by  this  excessive  care  and 
attempted  to  show  their  independence  by  swimming  out  from  under  the 
canoe.  They  were  promptly  rounded  up  and  shooed  back.  An  occasional 
shark,  hopeful  of  seizing  a  wayward  young  dolphin,  ventured  too  close  to 
the  escort,  whereupon  the  big  fish  changed  to  their  fighting  colours  and 


143 


Jungle  Gangsters 

drove  him  off.  They  are  vicious  fighters.  They  stayed  with  us  even  when 
a  stiff  breeze  made  it  difficult  for  the  little  fellows  to  keep  up,  and  their 
antics  kept  the  long  hours  of  sailing  from  becoming  tiresome. 

We  travelled  all  that  day  and  night  with  just  enough  wind  for  nice  sailing. 
Throughout  the  night,  one  of  us  stood  watch  while  the  other  slept.  Before 
daylight  we  heard  the  sound  of  breakers  and  hove  to  until  daylight.  Ginger 
wakened  me  at  dawn.  A  long  line  of  breakers  extended  out  to  sea,  where 
they  broke  upon  a  rocky  point  ahead. 

The  dolphins  had  deserted  us.  Meanwhile,  the  wind  had  increased  so 
that  sailing  became  difficult  and  it  seemed  best  to  land.  Paddling  round 
the  point  we  came  to  a  rough,  inhospitable  beach,  backed  by  sparse, 
scraggly  trees.  Unattractive  as  it  appeared,  it  was  the  only  landing  in  sight, 
and  better  than  the  now  heavy  seas.  We  paddled  close  inshore.  Ginger 
held  the  canoe  outside  the  breaker  line  while  I  swam  to  the  beach  and  pre¬ 
pared  a  runway  of  driftwood,  so  that  the  canoe  would  have  something  to 
land  on  besides  rocks. 

After  landing  safely  and  unloading  the  canoe,  we  looked  round.  On  a 
patch  of  sand  there  were  footprints!  Something  about  them  made  us  uneasy 
and  apprehensive.  That  there  were  no  other  signs  of  habitation  was  not 
strange,  since  this  was  a  most  unlikely  spot  for  natives. 

We  pitched  camp  under  the  scrawny  trees,  and  ate  a  meal  of  dry  rations 
from  our  small  store.  There  were  neither  fish  nor  clams  in  this  desolate 
spot.  ‘'What's  wrong  with  this  coffee?"  I  asked. 

"Weak,  but  you’d  better  like  it.  It’s  the  last  you'll  have  until  we  find 
some  more  wild  coffee  trees,"  replied  Ginger. 

The  country  round  our  camp  site  looked  so  unfriendly  that  we  wondered 
why  the  natives  or  any  one  else  would  choose  it  as  a  place  to  live.  Then  we 
heard  wild  turkeys  calling  and  decided  to  go  hunting.  Striking  out  across 
the  rocky  point  we  were  again  impressed  with  a  sense  of  desolation.  A  rude 
cross  set  up  among  the  rocks  marked  either  a  grave  or  a  ceremonial  ground. 
We  circled  back  into  the  growth.  It  was  the  height  of  the  dry  season  and 
we  made  so  much  noise  walking  on  the  dry  leaves  that  we  frightened  off 
all  the  game.  "Dan,"  Ginger  said,  "if  the  wind  isn't  too  strong,  I  have  a 
hunch  that  we  had  better  get  out  of  here." 

I  had  the  same  feeling.  In  fact,  this  was  the  first  place  that  I  had  ever 
definitely  disliked.  It  felt  dangerous,  but  I  couldn’t  have  told  you  why. 

We  were  walking  along  looking  at  the  ocean,  by  now  a  mass  of  wind- 
torn  whitecaps,  when  we  sighted  camp.  We  had  just  a  glimpse  of  running 
figures  before  they  ducked  into  the  brush.  We  hurried  on.  One  glance 
told  us  they  had  stolen  our  paddles,  harpoon,  and  fishing  gear — our  most 
indispensable  items! 

"They  would  have  taken  everything  if  those  boxes  hadn't  been  locked," 
I  said,  as  I  filled  my  clips  with  extra  ammunition.  "Stay  here  and  guard 
camp;  I'm  going  after  them." 


144 


Enchanted  Vagabonds 


I  started  off  with  Ginger  calling  after  me  to  be  careful.  I  was  seeing  red. 
This  was  the  first  time  anything  had  been  stolen.  As  silently  as  possible  I 
followed  the  dim  trail  that  led  over  a  ridge.  Coming  out  on  a  little  hogback 
I  scanned  the  trail  ahead,  but  there  was  no  sign  of  natives.  I  ran  down  the 
incline  and  up  the  next  rise.  There  on  the  trail  were  three  natives  carrying 
our  gear. 

I  shouted  for  them  to  stop.  Startled,  they  turned  round  and  then  made 
gestures  of  defiance  while  I  hurled  insults  at  them  in  Spanish.  As  they 
started  to  run  I  pulled  the  trigger.  The  Luger  kicked  and  chattered  in  my 
hand.  I  threw  in  a  second  clip,  pumped  it  dry,  and  threw  in  a  third  clip, 
firing  as  I  ran  towards  them. 

The  paddles  and  harpoon  lay  in  the  trail,  but  the  fishing  gear  had  dis¬ 
appeared  along  with  the  natives.  Only  a  red  spot  of  blood  shimmered  on  a 
leaf  to  show  that  they  had  been  there.  They  had  gone  in  diff  erent  directions. 
I  picked  up  the  gear  and  started  for  camp.  As  I  was  coming  down  the  last 
slope,  the  bushes  moved  and  I  shot  into  them.  Out  charged  a  cow,  as 
frightened  as  I  was. 

Ginger  came  running  to  meet  me,  gun  in  hand.  She  had  heard  the  sound 
of  the  Luger  and  come  to  join  the  fray.  “How  many  were  shooting?"  she 
asked. 

When  I  told  her  that  I  had  fired  all  twenty-four  shots  and  only  nicked 
one  native  and  frightened  a  cow,  she  made  no  comment.  I  said  that  we 
would  put  to  sea  at  once. 

“But  we  can't,"  she  protested.  “Look  at  that  ocean.  A  storm  is  coming 
up  and  the  wind  is  gettihg  stronger  every  minute." 

Between  the  boiling  ocean  and  the  natives,  who  had  no  doubt  gone  to 
their  village  with  a  wild  tale  of  an  unprovoked  attack  made  upon  them  by 
gringos,  we  were  in  a  pretty  mess.  Especially  if  they  belonged  to  a  tribe 
of  mixed  bloods  ( Indian  and  Negro)  who  inhabited  this  section  of  the  coast 
and  bore  a  bad  reputation  with  both  Indians  and  Mexicans. 

“Do  you  think  they  will  come  back?"  asked  Ginger.  “I'm  frightened." 

“If  they  do  they  will  bring  the  village  with  them,"  I  answered.  “But 
let's  have  supper  first  and  then  plan  the  next  move." 

After  the  meal  we  got  out  cans  of  ammunition,  turned  the  canoe  parallel 
to  the  beach,  blocked  it  up  with  sand,  and  covered  the  cockpit  with  canvas. 
Then  we  set  the  tent  about  thirty  feet  away  so  that  any  one  in  the  canoe 
would  have  an  unobstructed  view  of  the  beach.  Close  beside  the  tent  we 
built  a  fire.  The  night  was  cloudy,  but  if  the  stiff  wind  blew  the  clouds  by 
there  would  be  moonlight. 

“Let's  get  going,"  I  whispered.  Leaving  the  fire,  now  a  bed  of  glowing 
embers,  we  crawled  into  the  tent.  We  moved  round,  then  lay  quiet  for 
about  ten  minutes. 

“Follow  me  and  don't  make  a  sound,"  I  cautioned  Ginger,  as  we  stole 
quietly  out  of  the  tent  and  towards  the  water.  We  detoured  round  the 


*:.*  f.!.  :j  N  w  *  C ; v 


■ 

' 


147 


Jungle  Gangsters 

canoe  and  came  up  behind  it.  The  wind  was  slapping  the  canvas  covering 
as  I  removed  a  rock  from  the  cockpit,  and  motioning  Ginger  in,  crawled 
in  beside  her.  I  was  sure  that  no  native  waiting  in  the  darkness  could  have 
seen  us  enter  the  canoe,  because  the  whipping,  flapping  canvas  was  con¬ 
tinually  in  motion.  If  they  were  watching  the  tent  they  would  assume  that 
we  were  still  in  it. 

"I  hope  this  idea  works/'  I  whispered,  as  I  pried  the  lids  off  quart  cans 
of  ammunition.  “Got  all  your  clips  full?”  She  nodded.  “Then  lay  them  out 
where  you  can  reach  them  instantly,  and  be  careful  not  to  get  any  sand  in 
them — apt  to  jam  your  gun.  If  we  have  to  shoot,  place  your  shots  and  fire 
carefully.  When  your  clips  are  empty,  start  to  reload  my  clips.  I'll  time 
my  firing  so  you  can  keep  up  with  me.  We  will  stand  two-hour  watches. 
I'll  take  the  first  two  hours  while  you  sleep.  If  the  wind  goes  down  we  will 
load  up  and  put  out  to  sea." 

Ginger  stretched  out  in  the  cockpit  for  about  ten  minutes.  Then  she  sat 
up  beside  me,  loading  and  unloading  clips,  so  that  she  could  do  it  rapidly 
when  the  necessity  arose,  and  to  occupy  her  mind  while  we  were  waiting. 

I  watched  the  brush  behind  the  shore.  The  wind  had  grown  stronger 
and  moaned  and  sang  through  the  branches  of  the  trees  behind  the  beach. 
The  clouds  drifting  across  the  face  of  the  moon  threw  weird  moving  shad¬ 
ows  against  the  rocks.  Flurries  of  sand  resembled  ghostly  running  figures. 
I  examined  my  gun  again.  Its  grip  was  wet  with  sweat.  I  tried  taking  aim 
at  objects  on  the  beach,  and  cursed  myself  every  time  the  gun  trembled. 
Ginger  asked  me  what  I  saw  and  why  I  muttered.  “Nothing,"  I  answered. 
“I'm  just  swearing  at  myself  for  being  frightened." 

The  minutes  dragged  on.  Everything  on  the  beach  seemed  to  come  alive. 
Even  logs  began  to  crawl  round.  I  watched  every  dark  moving  object, 
tensing  every  time  the  brush  was  whipped  aside  by  the  wind  and  a  tree 
trunk  came  into  view.  Then  I  remembered  that  it  was  not  dark  figures 
that  needed  watching.  Natives  wore  white  clothes.  I  was  now  certain  that 
there  were  more  white  objects  moving  round  than  black.  My  muscles 
ached  from  their  long  tension  and  my  eyes  began  to  burn. 

“Dan,"  Ginger  whispered,  “I'm  tired  of  loading  clips.  I've  loaded  them 
at  least  a  hundred  times  and  can  do  it  quickly.  Stretch  out  and  I'll  keep 
watch  for  a  while." 

Sleep  was  impossible,  but  I  rested  for  a  while,  listening  to  the  roar  of 
the  surf  and  the  wind.  Then  Ginger  tugged  at  my  arm.  “I  see  something!" 

I  grabbed  the  Luger  and  sat  up,  straining  my  eyes  at  the  spot  to  which 
she  pointed.  There  was  nothing  except  moonlight  shining  on  a  tree  trunk. 
The  wind  seemed  to  be  easing  a  little  and  I  began  to  hope  that  we  could 
soon  sail  off.  I  knew  that  if  the  natives  I  had  fired  on  should  by  some  remote 
chance  belong  to  one  of  the  older  tribes  of  pure-blood  Indians,  we  had 
nothing  to  fear.  Indians  accept  what  happens  to  them  as  a  natural  result 


148  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

of  their  misdeeds  without  complaining.  But  if  they  belonged  to  the  mixed 
tribes  they  would  be  bent  on  revenge. 

Ginger  again  curled  up  in  the  cockpit  while  I  watched  the  shadows  along 
the  beach.  My  eyes  focussed  on  a  moving  blotch  of  white.  It  advanced  and 
another  blotch  seemed  to  join  it.  Was  this  a  trick  of  the  moonlight,  too? 
Then  they  moved  again.  I  shook  Ginger.  “Take  it  easy,”  I  whispered. 
“Watch  the  beach  to  the  left  and  I'll  take  the  right.” 

A  figure,  running  low,  darted  out  of  the  brush  and  headed  for  the  tent, 
stopped,  moved  closer,  and  stopped  again.  Even  the  wind  seemed  to 
hesitate.  A  spurt  of  flame  blotted  out  the  figure.  The  tent  shivered  with 
the  impact  of  the  charge.  One  after  another  the  white  clad  figures  ran  by, 
firing  at  the  tent  as  they  ran.  We  had  to  stop  those  flashes  and  those  run¬ 
ning  figures.  “Let  'em  have  it,”  I  said. 

The  Luger  jumped  as  it  barked  in  my  hand,  followed  by  the  high  stac¬ 
cato  of  Ginger's  twenty-two.  I  loaded  the  second  clip.  Again  the  roar  of 
the  Luger  drowned  out  all  other  sounds.  The  spurts  of  flame  against  the 
dark  background  provided  the  only  targets.  Three  clips,  four  clips.  I  drove 
the  last  clip  home  and  covered  Ginger's  section  while  she  reloaded  the 
empty  ones.  My  remembrance  from  then  on  is  of  Ginger  shoving  full  clips 
into  my  hand,  the  blinding  glare  and  the  roar  of  the  Luger,  and  the  sharp 
pain  of  a  burn  as  my  hand  slipped  too  far  up  on  the  barrel  while  reloading. 
Every  moving  object  on  the  beach  got  a  spray  of  lead.  We  sprayed  the 
brush  up  and  down  the  beach,  pausing  only  to  reload.  Finally  there  were 
no  more  spurts  of  flame  from  the  beach.  We  stopped  firing. 

“They've  gone.  Are  you  hurt?”  I  asked. 

“No,”  she  said,  “but  I  burn  all  over  from  the  hot  shells  in  the  cockpit. 
I'm  sitting  on  about  forty  of  them.” 

The  ammunition  was  getting  low  in  the  cans.  Our  gun  barrels  were 
scorching  hot.  The  wind  had  lost  its  force,  and  we  felt  that  it  was  high 
time  to  be  getting  out  of  there.  Ginger  got  behind  the  equipment  box  on 
the  beach,  and  covered  the  shore  while  I  got  the  tent  down.  Hurriedly  we 
dragged  the  canoe  down  to  the  water's  edge,  firing  every  now  and  then 
into  the  brush  as  we  worked.  The  fast  action  relieved  the  tension  and  we 
broke  all  records  tor  speedy  loading.  Ginger  held  the  canoe  while  I  stowed 
the  gear  away.  Each  time  I  went  back  to  shore  I  fully  expected  to  find  a 
dozen  natives  waiting  for  me. 

We  skidded  the  canoe  into  the  water,  loaded  the  last  bit  of  equipment 
aboard,  zipped  the  cockpit  shut,  and  paddled  madly  to  meet  the  oncoming 
surf,  heedless  of  the  breakers  ahead.  About  two  miles  offshore,  the  inevi¬ 
table  reaction  set  in  and  soon  we  were  too  exhausted  to  go  further.  We 
took  off  our  wet  clothes  and  piled  into  the  sleeping  bag  to  rest  until  day¬ 
light.  Ginger  fell  asleep  immediately,  but  at  first  I  could  only  doze,  sitting 
up  at  intervals  to  scan  the  sea  for  an  approaching  canoe. 

The  sun  was  high  when  I  awakened.  Ginger  was  still  sleeping.  Little 


149 


Jungle  Gangsters 

beads  of  perspiration  were  standing  on  her  forehead.  I  shook  her  gently. 
“No,  no,"  she  mumbled,  “I  don't  want  to  get  up." 

“It’s  getting  late,"  I  urged. 

“No,  I'm  afraid.  I  don’t  want  to  wake  up.  Please  let  me  alone." 

Her  face  looked  drawn  and  haggard.  I  dipped  my  hands  in  water  and 
laid  them  on  her  forehead  soothingly  while  I  talked  to  her,  telling  her 
that  she  could  go  back  to  sleep  just  as  soon  as  we  had  straightened  out 
the  packing  and  were  started  down  the  coast.  The  nervous  reaction  had 
left  us  both  badly  shaken. 

Unzipping  the  cockpit  revealed  two  or  three  inches  of  water  in  the 
bottom  of  the  boat.  I  shivered  as  I  stared  at  two  small  holes  that  let  in  a 
trickle  of  water  each  time  the  canoe  rolled.  The  bullets  had  passed  directly 
between  us.  A  hurried  examination  showed  that  they  were  the  extent  of 
our  damage,  and  I  plugged  them  with  little  pieces  of  cloth.  We  arranged 
our  equipment  and  hoisted  sail. 

A  light  breeze  sped  us  along  as  we  spent  the  balance  of  the  morning 
taking  our  guns  apart  and  giving  them  a  thorough  cleaning. 

Ginger  got  out  the  Pilot  Guide  to  find  a  landing  for  the  night  and  read, 
“Tartar  Shoals,  off  Maldonado,  constitute  the  greatest  menace  to  naviga¬ 
tion  on  this  portion  of  the  coast.  The  shoals  extend  four  miles  offshore. 
Heavy  breakers,  strong  currents,  with  frequent  tide  rips,  cut  the  sea  into 
treacherous  chops,  in  which  no  small  boat  can  live.  The  heaviest  tide  rips 
occur  off  the  seaward  extremity  of  the  shoals."  We  tried  to  figure  this 
one  out  in  advance.  It  was  too  late  in  the  day  to  attempt  to  get  round  the 
shoals.  The  surf  was  too  high  to  attempt  a  landing  elsewhere.  The  only 
chance  was  to  try  to  find  a  channel  through  the  shoals  and  to  reach  a  small 
bight  (a  small  bay  between  two  headlands)  which  the  chart  showed  to  be 
under  Maldonado  Point.  Our  chance  of  doing  this  was  remote,  and  I  knew 
it. 


Chapter  Seventeen 


JUNGLE  FEVER 


As  we  sailed  along  the  coast  towards  the  bight  mentioned  in  the  Pilot 
l  Guide ,  we  could  see  the  rocks  of  Tartar  Shoals  ahead,  with  big  seas 
crashing  all  round  them.  The  canoe  was  ready  for  any  emergency,  with  a 
life  line  rigged  round  the  gunwales,  and  a  knotted  line  trailing  astern 
for  additional  safety. 

We  discussed  the  nature  of  our  fears  as  we  paddled  along.  Neither  one 
of  us  was  actually  afraid  of  bodily  pain  or  death.  One  was  a  part  of  living 
and  the  other  was  inevitable.  Our  presence  here  proved  our  conscious 
acceptance  of  both  facts.  But  beneath  the  level  of  consciousness  was  another 
self  whose  sole  preoccupation  was  with  living.  It  scented  danger  to  the 
organism  it  inhabited;  it  grew  panicky  at  the  thought  of  extinction;  it 
repeatedly  warned  us  of  things  we  would  otherwise  be  unaware  of. 

Now  as  we  drew  nearer  the  shoals,  the  hiss  and  rumble  of  the  seas 
breaking  upon  them  became  terrific.  The  scattered  rocks  that  formed  them 
extended  seaward  for  a  distance  of  four  miles,  and  for  the  most  part  they 
were  hidden.  We  shuddered  at  the  fate  of  any  hapless  vessel  caught  among 
these  agents  of  destruction.  There  was  the  possibility,  however,  that  there 
might  be  an  opening  through  them,  and  we  scanned  the  vista  ahead  for 
signs  of  calmer  water.  Further  inshore  the  water  seemed  less  turbulent, 
and  we  carefully  and  cautiously  worked  our  way  towards  it.  Here  the  noise 
was  deafening,  for  the  breakers  were  on  both  sides  of  the  narrow  channel. 
It  was  impossible  to  gauge  its  depth,  because  of  the  churned-up  sand, 
consequently  we  eyed  each  rolling  sea  with  suspicion  as  we  felt  our  way 
along.  Headway  was  slow  and  difficult  for  we  were  going  against  a  strong 
current.  An  hour,  two  hours  passed,  and  then  the  way  seemed  blocked. 
Although  we  were  weary  from  lack  of  sleep  and  exhausted  from  the  strain 
of  the  previous  night's  ordeal,  this  obstacle  had  to  be  met  in  some  way. 
If  we  turned  back,  it  would  be  dark  long  before  we  reached  the  opening  of 
the  channel  we  had  come  through.  And  if  we  did  reach  it,  where  could  we 
land?  There  was  only  one  answer;  we  had  to  go  on.  Somewhere  ahead  of 
us  lay  the  little  bight  of  Maldonado — and  safety. 

The  swells  rising  under  us  became  sharper.  Apparently  we  were  getting 
into  shallow  water.  Ginger  stood  up  on  deck  to  see  if  she  could  see  the 
opening  ahead.  I  warned  her  to  be  careful  but  the  warning  came  too  late. 


151 


Jungle  Fever 

A  sea  slapped  the  canoe,  sweeping  it  out  from  under  her  feet.  She  cata¬ 
pulted  into  the  water  with  a  splash.  With  quick  strokes  I  headed  the  canoe 
round,  and  paddled  to  the  spot  where  she  had  gone  down.  The  inevitable 
dorsal  fin  appeared.  Her  head  came  above  the  water  and  she  started  to 
smile.  “Sharks/’  I  yelled,  and  if  there  is  any  word  in  the  marine  vocabulary 
that  can  instigate  faster  action,  I’d  like  to  know  what  it  is. 

Ginger  tumbled  on  deck  as  the  shark  hit  the  side  of  the  canoe  with  such 
force  that  we  felt  the  siding  splinter.  Several  other  fins  appeared  as  by 
telepathic  communication.  They  were  fine  company  for  a  trip  through  a 
narrow  channel  in  treacherous  shoal  water.  Ginger  reported  open  water 
ahead,  and  we  waited,  hoping  for  a  lull  in  the  breakers. 

We  finally  paddled  through  to  a  narrow  strip  of  open  water  that 
stretched  between  the  nearest  shoal  and  the  rock-strewn  beach.  It  was 
getting  dark,  but  we  were  still  some  distance  from  the  bight.  Since  we 
were  making  such  poor  time  with  the  paddles,  I  suggested  that  we  hoist 
sail,  even  though  I  knew  that  if  a  sea  should  hit  us  it  would  undoubtedly 
land  us  on  the  rocks.  As  we  scooted  along  towards  our  destination,  darkness 
overtook  us.  From  then  on  our  only  guide  was  the  phosphorescent  breakers. 
Soon  the  surf  in  the  bight  loomed  up  ahead  of  us  and  we  lowered  sail.  A 
small  sea  picked  us  up  and  left  us  on  the  sand.  We  stepped  ashore  with 
audible  sighs  of  relief  but  without  enough  ambition  to  set  up  camp. 

Ginger  reported  that  there  was  nothing  left  to  cook  except  some  scraps 
of  turtle  meat,  and  that  none  too  fragrant.  Dismally  we  went  to  sleep  in 
the  canoe,  wondering  if  we  had  put  enough  distance  between  ourselves 
and  last  night’s  camp. 

The  next  morning  we  started  off  through  the  intricate  three-mile  pas¬ 
sage  between  the  shore  and  the  shoals.  We  wanted  very  much  to  stay  and 
do  some  hunting  and  fishing,  but  discretion  told  us  to  sail  south.  Distance 
was  the  best  method  of  coping  with  revengeful  natives.  Our  spirits  rose 
as  we  faced  open  water  and  hoisted  our  sail  to  a  spanking  breeze.  Tartar 
Shoals  were  behind  us! 

The  water  was  alive  with  fish,  and  Ginger,  though  tired,  caught  and 
cleaned  a  mess  of  them  and  put  them  on  the  deck  to  dry.  We  knew  that 
ahead  of  us  was  a  big  lagoon  where  we  could  undoubtedly  replenish  our 
exhausted  food  supply  and  find  fresh  water.  The  chart  gave  its  name  as 
Alotengo  Lagoon,  into  which  the  Tecogame  River  empties. 

We  had  sighted  small  villages  earlier  in  the  day,  but  as  we  neared  the 
lagoon  our  hopes  rose,  for  there  were  neither  villages  nor  natives  in  sight. 
The  country  back  of  the  beach  was  well  wooded  and  looked  green  and 
inviting. 

After  shooting  the  breakers  we  found  ourselves  in  the  calm  waters  of 
the  lagoon.  We  picked  out  a  site,  but  without  waiting  to  set  up  camp  took 
our  guns  and  started  off  in  search  of  food.  The  turtle  meat  had  made  any 


152  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

variation  in  the  diet  a  matter  for  immediate  and  enthusiastic  consideration. 
Within  a  short  distance  from  the  beach  Ginger  bagged  a  wild  turkey. 

After  banqueting  on  broiled  wild  turkey,  palm  hearts  (the  tender  bud 
which  grows  at  the  top  of  the  palm  tree),  and  coco-nut  meat  and  milk,  we 
turned  in  for  the  first  good  sleep  in  a  long  time. 

I  woke  in  the  morning  feeling  dazed  and  listless.  The  sun  was  high.  My 
face  and  arms  itched.  I  looked  round.  Mosquitoes  were  everywhere.  Just 
then  one  of  them  lit  on  my  arm,  and  as  I  slapped  at  it  I  noticed  that,  unlike 
other  mosquitoes,  it  stood  on  its  head  as  it  bit.  This,  as  I  had  heard,  was 
one  of  the  distinguishing  marks  of  the  mosquito  that  injects  the  malarial 
parasite  through  its  salivary  glands.  I  woke  Ginger. 

“What’s  the  matter?”  she  asked. 

“Anopheles — malarial  mosquitoes — all  over  the  place,”  I  said.  “Better 
take  some  quinine.” 

“Oh,  Dan,  and  it's  all  my  fault.  I  forgot  to  mend  the  tent.  Look,  it’s 
full  of  bullet  holes.  We  haven’t  much  quinine  either,  have  we?” 

We  spent  a  day  half-heartedly  securing  food,  although  game  was  plenti¬ 
ful.  At  sundown  the  mosquitoes  drove  us  to  the  shelter  of  the  now  mended 
tent. 

The  next  morning  we  woke  with  headaches  and  at  once  built  a  smoky 
fire  to  discourage  the  mosquitoes  that  swarmed  towards  us  as  we  emerged 
from  the  tent.  Neither  of  us  was  hungry.  After  drinking  some  coco-nut 
milk  and  taking  a  stiff  shot  of  quinine,  we  sat  in  the  smoke  and  held  our 
heads. 

“This  place  gives  me  the  jitters.  It’s  the  silence  and  the  continual  hum 
of  the  mosquitoes.  Let's  go,”  Ginger  suggested. 

Her  skin  hurt,  she  said,  and  felt  “touchy.”  I  know  my  bones  and  head 
ached  as  we  paddled  on  up  the  lagoon.  At  its  upper  entrance  we  found  a 
clean  sand  barrier  that  looked  as  though  it  might  be  fairly  free  from  mos¬ 
quitoes,  so  we  decided  to  camp  there. 

“Perhaps  those  mosquitoes  aren’t  malarial  after  all,”  Ginger  said  hope¬ 
fully.  "They  don't  carry  malaria  unless  they  bite  some  one  who  has  it, 
and  there  are  no  natives  here.” 

I  was  sorry  to  disillusion  her,  but  she  would  have  to  know  some  time. 
“There  was  a  dugout  beached  across  the  river  from  where  we  were  hunting 
yesterday.” 

That  afternoon  while  we  were  preparing  food  for  the  next  jump,  Ginger 
complained  of  being  cold.  I  rolled  her  up  in  the  sleeping  bag  and  took  her 
temperature.  Then  I  was  certain — 102° — malaria.  While  making  broth 
for  supper,  I  too  began  to  shiver.  We  drank  the  broth  and  crawled  into 
the  sleeping  bag,  trying  vainly  to  get  warm. 

I  knew  that  we  would  have  to  leave  the  first  thing  in  the  morning  for 
Salina  Cruz,  two  hundred  miles  away,  and  a  doctor,  but  I  did  not  want 
Ginger  to  know  just  how  slim  our  chances  were  of  ever  getting  there. 


1 63 


Jungle  Fever 

We  had  very  little  quinine,  and  we  needed  five  grains  each,  every  two 
hours.  Though  Acapulco  was  nearer,  Tartar  Shoals  stood  between  us,  and 
I  knew  that,  with  the  wind  against  us  and  no  place  to  land,  we  could  never 
make  it. 

At  daylight  we  got  up  feeling  stiff  and  groggy.  I  broke  camp  while 
Ginger  fixed  some  more  broth.  Then  came  the  task  of  portaging  the  equip¬ 
ment  across  the  soft  sand.  We  tried  rolling  the  canoe,  but  the  roller  stuck 
repeatedly  and  Td  have  to  lift  the  canoe  while  Ginger  freed  the  roller  and 
replaced  it.  Halfway  across  the  barrier  we  were  exhausted,  but  doggedly 
kept  at  it.  It  was  afternoon  before  we  stood  beside  our  equipment  on  the 
beach  and  watched  the  heavy  surf. 

“Do  you  think  we  can  make  it?"  Ginger’s  voice  sounded  weak  and  far 
away. 

“We've  got  to." 

Just  to  load  the  canoe  took  all  the  endurance  we  had.  The  strong  current 
along  the  shore  kept  carrying  the  boat  down  the  beach,  so  after  every  load 
I’d  help  Ginger  work  it  back  to  where  the  equipment  lay.  Great  waves, 
which  in  crashing  threw  spray  thirty  feet  in  the  air,  added  to  the  hopeless¬ 
ness  of  the  situation.  The  load  finally  in,  we  considered  resting  but  agreed 
that  we  must  get  on  to  Salina  Cruz  without  further  delay. 

We  started,  trying  to  gauge  the  lull  and  to  paddle  through  the  breakers 
while  it  lasted.  Then,  halfway  out,  big  seas  began  to  roll  over  us,  filling 
the  cockpit.  We  were  soon  wet  with  spray  and  shivering  with  chills.  As  an 
unusually  big  roller  approached  I  tried  to  backwater,  but  it  was  too  late. 
We  were  swept  up  in  the  curl  of  the  sea,  and  crashed  over  backwards,  the 
canoe  on  top  of  us.  Churned  and  pounded,  with  sand  filling  our  eyes,  noses, 
and  mouths,  we  finally  rose  to  the  surface  and  swam  for  shore,  to  sink  on 
the  sand  half-dazed. 

After  great  effort  we  managed  to  collect  the  canoe  and  our  sailing  gear 
from  the  water.  And  by  now  we  needed  no  further  persuasion  that  it  was 
best  to  wait  for  the  seas  to  become  calmer. 

Burning  with  fever,  we  spent  a  miserable  afternoon  and  night.  At  day¬ 
light  Ginger’s  fever  was  103°  and  mine  102°.  There  were  two  hundred 
miles  of  storm-tossed  sea  between  us  and  the  nearest  aid.  Without  a 
permanent  camp  and  a  supply  of  food,  we  couldn’t  manage  alone.  No 
matter  how  much  quinine  we  took  the  mosquitoes  would  reinfect  us  if  we 
stayed  in  the  lagoon.  Whatever  seemed  best  to  do  must  be  done  at  once, 
before  the  ravages  of  fever  made  us  completely  helpless. 

Shortly  after  daylight  we  made  a  second  attempt  to  put  to  sea.  The  surf 
was  fairly  calm  now,  but  it  was  difficult  for  Ginger,  in  her  weakened  con¬ 
dition,  to  hold  the  canoe  against  the  surge  while  I  loaded.  The  boat  broke 
away  from  her  time  after  time,  and  I  would  have  to  drop  my  load  and 
stagger  to  help  her  catch  it.  The  thing  seemed  possessed  of  devils. 

At  last  we  were  loaded.  Ginger  lay  covered  with  a  piece  of  canvas  in  the 


1 54  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

cockpit,  wnile  I  paddled.  Well  out  from  shore,  I  arranged  the  sleeping  bag 
for  her,  hoisted  sail,  and  with  a  light  breeze  from  the  south-east  we  started 
down  the  coast.  At  noon  the  breeze  died  altogether. 

I  have  little  recollection  of  what  followed,  though  I  was  apparently  able 
to  write  down  the  events  in  the  log. 

I  quote: 

“Dec.  17.  Tried  to  rouse  Ginger  to  take  some  food — seems  in  stupor. 
Gave  her  quinine.  Tried  paddling,  couldn’t  keep  it  up.  Very  sore  all  over. 
Gave  up,  doubled  up  in  cockpit.  Dozed  off  until  2  p.m.  when  light  breeze 
came  up  offshore.  Making  fair  time.  Ginger  has  severe  chills.  Covered  her 
with  tent  and  canvas.  Very  difficult  handling  paddle,  as  arms  sore.  No 
landing.  Think  we’re  off  Minzio  Point.  7  p.m.  Just  breeze  enough  to  offset 
current.  10  p.m.  Wind  died,  situation  looks  hopeless.  Can't  stay  awake 
much  longer.  Almost  fell  over  side.  Moved  Ginger  and  sat  in  the  cockpit. 
Not  enough  room  to  stretch  out. 

“Dec.  18,  2  a.m.  Wakened  by  a  bad  attack  of  chills.  Nothing  to  wrap 
up  in.  Tried  to  keep  warm  by  paddling,  can’t  make  paddle  work.  Hear 
breakers  but  can’t  determine  direction.  3  a.m.  Wind  from  the  south.  Flap¬ 
ping  of  sail  woke  me.  Canoe  rising  to  heavy  swell.  Either  too  close  to 
breaker  line  or  due  for  storm.  Seems  best  to  tack  out  to  sea.  4  a.m.  Sea 
choppy,  difficult  time  handling  canoe.  Trying  to  head  into  waves  so  spray 
won't  wet  Ginger,  can’t  manage  it.  Will  try  rigging  piece  of  canvas  over 
cockpit,  using  paddle  lor  a  ridge  pole.  Hoisting  sail  to  try  to  beat  way 
against  the  wind.  Soaked  and  very  cold.  Just  woke  up  from  doze  to  find 
canoe  heading  into  heavy  breakers,  now  heading  for  sea.  5  a.m.  Canoe 
almost  turned  over.  Can’t  seem  to  sail  into  wind.  Difficult  to  stay  awake 
and  great  pain  in  back  and  shoulders.  Had  idea  of  turning  back  to  Acapulco 
but  can’t  seem  to  remember  how  far  it  is  from  present  position.  6  a.m. 
Wind  stronger.  Horizon  to  south  black.  Three  miles  offshore.  Danger  we 
are  in  seems  to  have  cleared  my  head  somewhat.  Judging  from  chills  must 
have  malignant  type  malaria.  Wind  now  too  strong  to  sail.  7  a.m.  Woke 
up  Ginger.  Tried  to  tell  her  the  situation.  She’s  too  sick  to  care.  No  land¬ 
ing  in  sight.  Ahead  is  reef.  Almost  lost  sail  when  wind  struck  us.  Wind 
too  strong,  can't  last  much  longer.  Must  rouse  Ginger.  We  will  have  to 
take  risk  of  cracking  up  on  rocks  rather  than  trying  to  ride  out  storm. 
Got  Ginger  out  of  bag.  She  understands  and  said  ‘shore.’  8  a.m.  Waiting 
for  lull.  Afraid  there  won’t  be  any.  Tried  to  tell  Ginger  to  get  ready  to 
jump  and  swim  ashore.  She  just  keeps  turning  her  face  and  trying  to  smile, 
don't  think  she  comprehends,  Here  we  go.” 

As  we  dashed  in  towards  the  rocks  under  reefed  sail,  a  small  channel 
opened  up  before  us.  I  headed  the  canoe  towards  it.  Rocks  and  shore  line 
flashed  by.  A  huge  swell  picked  us  up  and  the  next  thing  I  remember  we 
were  on  the  shore  in  a  heap.  As  in  a  dream  I  saw  the  canoe,  her  sail  flapping, 
safe  beside  me  on  the  sand.  In  the  cockpit  Ginger  sat  up  and  looked  round. 


155 


Jungle  Fever 

She  could  no  longer  manage  a  smile.  I  pulled  the  canvas  from  round  her 
and  spread  it  out  on  the  dry  sand  further  up  the  beach,  then  lifted  her  from 
the  cockpit  and  staggered  off,  my  knees  buckling  under  me.  Before  I  reached 
the  canvas  we  went  down  in  a  heap.  Wet,  half  conscious,  covered  with 
sand,  and  shaking  with  chills,  we  lay  where  we  had  fallen. 

I  have  no  recollection  of  how  much  time  elapsed,  but  I  seemed  to  hear 
some  one  shouting,  "Get  up  and  fight,  you  fool!"  I  didn't  want  to  fight,  I 
didn't  care.  For  Ginger,  yes,  but  for  myself  I  only  wanted  to  be  let  alone. 
When  I  could  no  longer  ignore  that  insistent  summons,  I  staggered  to 
my  feet,  then  fell  and  crawled  over  to  the  canvas,  which  I  dragged  down 
and  wrapped  round  Ginger.  The  wind  tore  at  the  silent  roll  as  I  stood 
looking  at  it.  There  was  something  so  final  and  conclusive  about  that  inert 
bundle,  the  end  of  life  and  movement  and  laughter;  it  filled  me  with  fear 
and  rage.  By  God,  I  would  do  something!  I  cursed  my  impotence  and 
screamed  defiance  at  the  elements,  which  seemed  to  scream  back,  "You 
can’t  do  it!"  I  would  do  it. 

Above  us,  a  black  sky  merged  with  a  sable  sea,  around  us  towering 
funereal  cliffs  united  with  the  jungle.  My  mood  matched  the  blackness  and 
the  desolation  as  I  stormed  down  to  the  canoe,  dragged  out  the  sleeping 
bag  and  tent  and  carried  them  up  to  the  beach  to  roll  them  round  Ginger. 
I  then  unloaded  the  canoe,  staggering  and  falling  and  cursing  my  weakness 
each  time  I  stumbled,  and  eventually  dragged  it  to  where  it  formed  a 
windbreak  for  Ginger.  That  accomplished,  I  started  looking  for  some  dry 
wood,  which  I  found  under  an  overhanging  rock. 

Many  times  I  tried  to  start  a  fire,  but  the  wind  would  blow  it  out  each 
time  the  tinder  ignited.  In  my  fevered  state  the  elements  became  personified 
for  me,  as  they  were  for  Stone  Age  men.  I  sat  up  and  shouted  to  the  wind, 
"I'll  build  this  fire  in  spite  of  you!" 

With  that  I  threw  open  the  grub  box,  got  out  Ginger's  largest  kettle, 
and  filled  it  with  tinder  and  wood.  Then,  carrying  it,  I  climbed  into  the 
canoe  and  under  the  deck.  "Now  blow  this  fire  out."  The  fire  kindled  in  the 
kettle.  When  the  smoke  became  unbearable  I  carefully  worked  the  live 
coals  out  on  to  the  sand,  and  piled  on  more  wood.  I  made  a  windbreak  of 
the  sail  to  shield  the  fire,  set  up  the  tent,  and  moved  Ginger  into  it.  As  I 
worked  the  squall  struck  in  all  its  fury.  I  remember  shouting,  "You  can’t 
lick  us  now.  Ginger's  in  bed,  we  have  a  fire,  and  water  and  food." 

The  rain  fell  in  torrents.  The  wind  tried  to  tear  down  the  shelter  and 
whip  out  the  fire.  I  gave  Ginger  quinine  and  soup,  and  tried  to  tell  her 
that  we  had  beaten  the  storm.  But  she  shook  her  head,  too  sick  to  under¬ 
stand. 

I  lay  down,  dozed,  got  up,  gave  Ginger  quinine  and  soup  and  lay  down 
again — all  through  the  rest  of  the  day  and  the  night.  Ginger  needed 
quinine  most,  so  I  took  half  doses  as  our  supply  dwindled.  The  thermometer 
readings  seemed  fantastic — 103° — 104°.  She  lay  in  a  coma. 


156  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

Some  time  during  the  night  the  storm  abated.  When  the  sun  had  warmed 
the  sand,  I  dragged  Ginger  out  of  the  tent  and  laid  her  on  the  canvas. 
Then  in  some  fashion  I  loaded  the  canoe.  I  remember  dragging  the  boxes 
because  I  couldn't  lift  them.  The  tide  must  have  come  in  as  I  worked  for 
the  boat  was  beached  when  I  started,  yet  it  was  afloat  when  I  aroused 
Ginger.  I  don't  know  how  she  got  in.  I  remember  trying  to  lift  her  and 
being  unable  to  do  so. 

Nor  have  I  any  recollection  of  the  next  two  days. 

Opening  my  eyes,  I  stared  down  at  the  water  sloshing  round  in  the 
cockpit.  Ginger  lay  huddled  under  the  canvas.  I  started  to  reach  for  her 
to  see  if  she  were  still  alive  and  discovered  that  I  was  lashed  to  the  stern 
of  the  canoe.  My  body  was  chafed  and  raw  where  the  ropes  had  bit  into  it. 
The  deck  was  crusted  with  salt  and  the  sail  hung  partly  in  the  water.  We 
had  apparently  been  through  a  terrible  storm.  I  undid  my  lashings  and 
pulled  the  canvas  from  Ginger's  face.  She  was  unconscious  but  still  breath- 
ing. 

I  looked  towards  shore,  but  couldn't  see  it.  On  the  seaward  side  were  tall 
cliffs.  Then  I  knew  that  we  were  sailing  in  the  wrong  direction,  so  turned 
the  canoe  around  and  hoisted  sail.  I  tried  to  call  Ginger  but  could  make  no 
sound  Realizing  that  we  had  probably  been  without  water  for  a  long  time, 
I  got  out  the  canteen  and  dripped  some  of  its  contents  on  Ginger's  parched 
lips.  She  aroused  herself  sufficiently  to  take  a  few  sips. 

From  time  to  time  I  gave  her  more  water  in  small  quantities. 

We  passed  high  brown  cliffs  and  came  to  the  entrance  of  a  small  bay. 
As  we  rounded  the  point  I  discovered  a  few  native  huts.  I  had  no  idea 
where  we  were,  but  here  were  people.  I  shouted  the  good  news  to  Ginger. 
The  excitement  helped  clear  my  head.  Common  sense  told  me  not  to  land 
in  the  village,  so  I  picked  a  spot  about  one  hundred  yards  from  the  last  hut. 
Dusky  figures  came  running  to  meet  us.  A  dozen  hands  reached  for  the 
canoe. 

A  huge  broad-shouldered  negro  lifted  Ginger  and  started  to  carry  her 
away.  “No,  no,"  I  shouted.  A  dozen  voices  protested.  “We  have  malaria, 
colentura ,  paludisimo.  We  have  a  house,  we  must  stay  here  on  the  beach." 

As  long  as  we  remained  in  our  insect-proof  tent,  there  was  little  likeli¬ 
hood  of  our  being  bitten  by  mosquitoes,  who  in  turn  would  most  certainly 
infect  the  natives.  It  was  important  to  make  them  comprehend  this. 

Piloto,  the  big  negro,  seemed  to  understand.  I  got  out  the  sleeping  bag 
and  carried  it  near  the  trees  on  the  edge  of  the  beach.  There  Piloto  laid 
Ginger  down  and  a  half-dozen  native  women  dropped  to  their  knees  beside 
her. 

The  natives  were  Huichole  Indians.  Piloto  appeared  to  be  the  only  negro 
in  the  village.  He  was  infinitely  helpful  and  seemed  to  understand  what  I 
wanted  done  without  words.  Taking  command,  he  had  a  camp  site  cleared 


157 


Jungle  Fever 

at  a  sufficient  distance  from  the  village  and  gave  the  arguing  natives  orders 
as  to  where  to  set  the  tent  and  how.  I  was  too  dazed  to  be  of  any  use. 

While  I  sat  on  the  equipment  box,  two  buxom  old  ladies  worked  over 
Ginger,  washing  her,  getting  her  into  dry  clothes,  and  putting  her  to  bed. 
After  that  they  boiled  food  for  us.  Then  they  stood  over  me  and  picked  at 
my  wet  clothes.  I  must  go  to  bed  at  once,  they  insisted.  Piloto  wiped  warm 
wet  rags  over  my  body  and  followed  that  with  a  brisk  rubbing  with  rough 
dry  cloths.  When  I  had  wriggled  into  a  strange-looking  suit  of  light,  clean 
clothes,  l  crawled  into  the  bag  beside  Ginger. 

Curious  snatches  of  conversation  came  to  me  before  I  dozed  off. 

“They  are  white  and  from  the  West.  They  came  in  a  small  boat  with  a 
figurehead  upon  its  bow.  It  is  said  that  from  the  West  they  will  come/’ 
The  voices  droned  on,  the  language  a  mixture  of  Spanish  and  native. 

”  Pobrecita  Senora ,  me d kina.”  A  fat  old  woman  was  on  her  hands  and 
knees,  peering  at  us  and  holding  in  her  hand  a  jicara  of  some  steaming 
liquid. 

I  helped  Ginger  to  a  sitting  position,  and  we  took  turns  drinking  the 
medicine,  which  tasted  like  a  sweetish  corn  concoction.  Then  another  jicara 
was  passed  in;  this  had  the  bitterness  of  gall.  I  gagged  as  it  burned  all 
the  way  down,  then  panted  for  breath.  “Drink  it,  drink  it,"  the  old  woman 
insisted.  I  took  another  gulp  and  held  it  to  Ginger’s  lips.  She  coughed  and 
sputtered  as  I  had,  but  did  manage  to  swallow  some  of  it.  I  drained  the  rest. 
Soon  I  became  warm  and  comfortable.  Outside  it  was  dark,  there  were 
faint  sounds  of  people  getting  dinner,  the  crackling  of  fires  and  the  far-off’ 
hum  of  voices. 

A  strange,  withered  face,  with  eyes  that  seemed  to  glow,  looked  into 
the  tent.  “Listen,  my  children,  sleep,  my  children,  but  listen."  I  nudged 
Ginger,  but  she  was  in  a  coma  and  barely  breathing.  The  voice  repeated, 
“Sleep,  but  listen."  The  face  withdrew  and  I  closed  the  tent. 

I  lay  there  and  tried  to  assemble  my  thoughts,  but  could  arrange  them 
in  no  coherent  pattern.  Like  will-o’-the-wisps  the  events  of  the  last  few 
days  entered  and  receded  from  my  consciousness.  The  face  of  the  negro 
Piloto,  with  its  uncanny  look  of  awareness,  and  the  gentle,  quiet  faces  of 
the  Indian  women  seemed  thrown  upon  the  walls  of  the  little  tent,  as  on  a 
screen.  All  I  knew  for  certain  was  that  order  had  somehow  superseded 
chaos.  I  sighed — I  was  too  sick — and  then  I  must  have  slept. 

I  awoke  and  listened.  Now  it  seemed  that  the  hallucinations  were 
auditory.  Strange  sounds  were  filling  the  tent  and  I  was  conscious  of  a 
soothing,  floating  sensation.  The  hard  ground  on  which  we  lay  seemed 
soft  as  eiderdown.  This  startled  me.  I  sat  up.  Could  this  be  death?  Now  the 
sounds  became  more  definite,  a  rhythmic  rise  and  fall  of  a  single  note,  a 
chant  that  came  from  directly  outside  the  tent.  Then  I  saw  a  flickering  of 
light  through  the  thin  canvas,  and  reached  over  cautiously  to  open  the  flap. 
Kneeling  in  the  sand  before  a  tall  lighted  taper,  was  the  old  woman  who 


1 58  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

had  called  us  her  children.  She  was  swaying  back  and  forth  as  she  chanted, 
so  intent  that  my  movements  did  not  disturb  her.  Quietly  I  crawled  back 
into  the  bag  and  drifted  off,  with  the  strange  rhythm  of  the  chant  rocking 
me  to  sleep. 

Later  on  I  awoke  again,  feeling  quiet  and  peaceful.  My  first  thought  was 
of  Ginger.  I  bent  over  her.  Though  burning  with  fever,  she  breathed  slowly 
and  evenly.  I  looked  out  of  the  tent  again.  The  old  woman  was  still  there, 
her  taper  burned  almost  to  the  ground,  still  chanting  her  age-old  song  of 
healing. 

About  sunrise  the  sound  of  singing  awakened  us  both.  The  old  woman 
was  gone  now,  but  there  was  a  procession  of  natives  on  their  way  to  the 
beach.  As  they  walked  they  sang  to  the  rising  sun,  and  they  continued  their 
song  while  they  busied  themselves  about  our  fire. 

I  spoke  to  Ginger.  She  smiled.  She  was  very  weak,  but  miraculously 
better. 

" Hello,  in  there.” 

I  almost  jumped  out  of  my  skin.  Some  one  speaking  English!  For  an 
instant  I  was  tongue-tied.  "Hello,  I'll  be  right  out.” 

"No,”  the  voice  said,  "stay  where  you  are.  I  have  brought  quinine, 
but  you  must  have  some  hot  atole  first.”  ( Atole  in  this  village  was  a  pur£e 
soup  made  from  boiled  wild  rice.) 

A  Pennsylvania  Dutchman!  I  wriggled  out  of  the  sleeping  bag  and 
looked  for  the  white  man.  "Where  has  he  gone?”  I  stammered  in  Spanish. 

"Who,  me?”  I  stared  in  wonder  at  the  pleasant  dark-faced  speaker.  His 
clothes  were  tattered  and  his  face  streaked  with  dirt.  He  was  as  obviously 
a  Mexican  as  he  was  obviously  not  an  American.  But  I  could  have  sworn 
to  that  accent. 

"Excuse  my  appearance,  but  I  have  ridden  all  night  to  bring  you  quinine. 
Get  back  into  bed,  the  atole  will  soon  be  ready.  I  will  sit  here  by  the  tent,” 
he  said. 

Too  dumbfounded  for  speech,  I  said  nothing. 

"Are  you  surprised  that  I  speak  English?”  he  asked.  "I  grew  up  in 
Pennsylvania — my  foster  father  was  a  missionary — but  I  came  back  to  my 
own  people.  I  live  on  a  plantation  some  distance  inland.  A  native  runner 
brought  me  word  that  you  were  here.  I  brought  herbs  from  the  high 
country  and  some  quinine.” 

I  told  him  that  the  natives  had  given  us  medicine.  What  it  was  I  did 
not  know,  but  it  was  more  effectual  than  quinine. 

"Ah,  yes,  the  Wise  Woman,”  he  nodded.  "She  has  great  knowledge 
and  I  recommend  her  treatment.” 

"Why  did  she  sit  outside  our  tent  and  chant  all  night?  Do  you  know?” 
I  asked. 

"Yes,”  he  answered.  "But  do  you  mind  if  I  do  not  speak  English?  It  is 
so  long  since  I  have  used  the  language  that  I  speak  it  awkwardly.” 


159 


Jungle  Fever 

"By  all  means  speak  Spanish." 

"The  natives  have  many  reasons  for  chanting  to  cure  illness.  It  keeps 
away  the  evil  spirits.  It  soothes  the  mind  of  the  listener,  and  makes  it 
easier  for  the  good  spirits  to  effect  a  cure.  And  it  is  also  a  prayer.  This  is 
hard  to  explain  to  any  one  who  does  not  have  the  native  point  of  view.  If 
you  have  strength  to  listen,  I  believe  that  I  can  explain.  This  ‘evil  spirit' 
is  not  a  demon,  but  a  part  of  your  spirit,  the  part  of  you  that  is  always  pre¬ 
occupied  with  yourself.  When  you  are  ill  that  spirit  takes  possession  of 
you  and  you  become  fearful;  and  when  you  are  fearful,  you  cannot  become 
well.  By  listening  to  the  chant,  even  if  you  sleep  the  mind  is  occupied.  The 
fear  of  being  alone  is  banished  by  the  voice  as  well.  But  I  will  not  talk 
further.  Here  comes  your  food." 

The  Wise  Woman  now  appeared  with  an  escort  carrying  steaming 
bowls  of  atole.  I  stepped  aside  while  one  of  the  women  went  into  the  tent, 
and  propping  Ginger’s  head  on  her  capacious  bosom,  fed  her  the  soup  and 
a  large  dose  of  the  bitter  brew.  The  escort  filled  the  bowls  again  and  handed 
them  to  me. 

"That  medicine  is  good  for  you,"  said  the  man.  "It  is  strong,  but  so  is 
the  fever.  I  have  had  malaria,  and  I  know.  Now  we  will  go  and  let  you 
sleep." 

At  noon  I  took  Ginger's  temperature.  It  was  103^°,  and  my  own  was 
104°. 

The  fever  dulled  our  senses,  and  I  have  little  recollection  of  the  next 
weeks,  except  that  I  awoke  one  morning  bathed  in  sweat.  Ginger’s  fever 
broke  the  next  day.  For  several  weeks  longer  we  were  listless  and  weak. 
During  all  this  time  we  had  constant  care.  Each  night  at  sundown  the  Wise 
Woman,  sitting  before  her  candle,  would  start  her  night-long  chant.  Each 
day  began  with  the  sound  of  singing  voices. 

It  was  a  full  two  months  before  we  were  strong  enough  to  travel,  and  in 
that  time  we  came  to  understand  and  admire  these  people.  Their  homes 
were  open  to  us.  They  lent  us  horses  for  short  trips  into  the  interior. 
We  attended  innumerable  parties  and  fiestas.  We  took  long  walks  along 
the  beach  in  the  moonlight,  accompanied  by  the  entire  village.  They  ser¬ 
enaded  us  by  the  hour  before  our  campfire. 

The  name  of  the  village  was  Puerto  Escondido,  which  means  "hidden." 
Though  it  was  very  small,  it  boasted  a  maritime  official  named  Constan¬ 
tino,  a  quiet  soft-spoken  man  with  a  superb  sense  of  humour.  His  wife 
Elena  was  a  handsome  blonde  from  an  inland  tribe.  There  were  often 
blondes  among  the  Indians,  she  said.  Whether  this  was  due  to  some  ad¬ 
mixture  of  Spanish  blood,  I  do  not  know.  Her  four-year-old  precocious 
daughter,  Rosita,  was  as  dark  as  Constantino. 

Since  Constantino's  family  was  typical  of  this  village  it  might  interest 
the  reader  to  learn  how  they  lived. 


160  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

In  Elena  and  Constantino's  home  were  two  elderly  aunts,  Maria  and 
Concha.  Most  Mexican  families  have  one  or  more  old  persons  living  with 
them,  for  Indians  unfailingly  care  for  and  respect  their  aged  members.  And 
no  one  is  ever  left  alone.  In  the  event  of  the  break-up  of  a  home,  the  sur¬ 
vivor  is  taken  into  another  family,  not  necessarily  related,  where  he  is 
treated  with  kindness.  There  is  never  any  question  as  to  his  welcome.  He 
performs  such  tasks  as  are  within  his  ability;  but  if  he  is  unable  to  do  any¬ 
thing,  it  doesn’t  matter.  Nothing  would  seem  more  repellent  or  inhuman 
to  an  Indian  than  an  “Old  People’s  Home.’’  We  tried  to  explain  that  our 
people  must  work  hard  to  provide  lor  their  old  age,  but  this  met  with  in¬ 
comprehension.  “Senor,’’  I  was  asked,  “have  they  no  friends?’’ 

The  two  aunts  were  remarkable  old  ladies,  with  a  vigour  that  belied 
their  wrinkled  faces.  Both  were  jolly,  plump,  and  energetic.  Maria  attacked 
the  inetate  with  the  mano  (this  word  meaning  “hand”  is  the  local  name 
for  grinding  stone)  with  a  fury  that  used  to  make  us  wonder  how  she 
could  fail  to  break  it.  While  it  looks  easy,  the  odd  rolling  motion  used  in 
grinding  corn  is  both  hard  work  and  difficult  to  master.  Another  fascinat¬ 
ing  occupation  was  to  watch  Concha  deftly  pat  and  cook  the  tortillas  that 
Maria  ground.  Both  women  wore  the  long  full  skirt  and  overblouse  and 
rebosa  which  constitute  the  usual  costume  of  Indian  women. 

The  house  was  made  of  saplings  tied  with  vines  and  covered  with  a 
thatched  palm  roof.  In  one  corner  of  the  kitchen  was  the  altar  stove,  built 
of  mud  and  rocks  and  topped  with  stones  set  in  a  triangle  to  hold  the 
earthen  pots.  The  metate  was  placed  on  a  forked  upright  near-by,  with 
another  forked  stick  below  it  on  which  hung  the  receptacle  to  catch  the 
masa  (ground  corn).  A  three-forked  upright  held  the  water  olla.  A  table, 
several  stools,  and  some  earthen  pots  completed  the  equipment.  Ham¬ 
mocks  were  used  to  sleep  in  because  of  the  humidity  and  they  made  com¬ 
fortable  beds,  we  found,  once  one  became  accustomed  to  them. 

The  main  diet  of  these  people  consists  of  fish,  tortillas,  beans,  and  rice, 
augmented  by  turtles,  turtle  eggs  (considered  a  rare  delicacy),  venison, 
and  once  in  a  while  beef,  although  we  could  never  discover  where  it  came 
from.  They  also  eat  coco-nuts,  pineapples,  mangos,  and  a  fruit  which  looks 
like  a  green  orange,  but  tastes  like  a  very  poor  combination  of  grapefruit, 
lime,  and  orange.  It  has  almost  no  juice  and  very  little  flavour.  Other  arti¬ 
cles  used  are  panela  (native  sugar),  coffee,  and  tobacco. 

They  never  vary  the  traditional  way  of  doing  things.  For  instance, 
Ginger  noticed  that  they  never  put  salt  in  the  uncooked  tortilla  dough  but 
salted  them  as  they  ate  them.  She  showed  them  how  we  season  food. 
There  was  no  reason  why  they  shouldn’t  do  it  that  way,  they  said — they 
had  just  never  thought  of  it.  Then  Ginger  tried  out  other  culinary  innova¬ 
tions.  She  mixed  ground  barbecued  meat  and  black  boiled  beans  into  the 
uncooked  masa ,  patted  the  mixture  into  tortillas  and  cooked  them.  The 
result  was  surprisingly  good. 


161 


Jungle  Fever 

She  also  laboured  mightily  explaining  the  niceties  of  sanitation.  With 
great  difficulty  and  arm  waving  she  painted  for  them  a  graphic  picture  of 
the  horror  of  germs,  the  danger  inherent  in  an  unglazed,  unboiled  olla. 
She  poured  boiling  water  over  everything,  explaining  what  a  good  idea 
it  would  be  to  use  ashes  boiled  in  water  to  clean  the  metate  and  other  cook¬ 
ing  implements.  We  were  careful  to  suggest  nothing  for  which  they  lacked 
the  equipment. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  the  huts  are  by  no  means  as  unsanitary  as  one  might 
suspect.  The  lime  water  in  which  the  corn  is  boiled  before  grinding  is 
sprinkled  on  the  floors.  This  helps  to  sterilize  the  ground  and  keep  out 
crawling  pests.  The  people  are  very  clean  about  their  persons  too.  At 
least  once  a  day,  usually  between  eight  and  nine  in  the  morning,  or  at 
five  in  the  afternoon,  all  of  them  go  for  a  swim  in  a  little  sheltered  cove. 

Ginger  taught  the  women  different  embroidery  stitches  which  looked 
very  pretty  on  their  hand-woven  cloth  (Elena  became  especially  adept  in 
the  use  of  the  cross  stitch).  She  also  taught  them  how  to  make  a  French 
seam,  and  the  flat  seam  stitched  on  both  sides  so  that  their  clothes  would 
not  come  apart  so  easily.  The  proper  wray  of  patching  a  garment — w  ith  the 
edges  turned  under  and  stitched  twice,  and  the  patch  larger  than  the  hole — 
was  new  to  them  also. 

I  taught  the  men  and  boys  various  games;  how  to  make  sling  shots, 
bows  and  arrows  (these  Indians  had  never  used  them),  and  some  tricks 
of  carving.  And  with  Ginger's  aid,  I  made  a  doll  for  Rosita.  The  child's 
dark  little  face  would  beam,  as  she  proudly  and  tenderly  rocked  it. 

Among  the  older  men  and  boys  I  organized  a  life-saving  crew,  taught 
them  artificial  respiration,  first  aid,  and  the  use  of  the  tourniquet.  They 
were  especially  interested  in  learning  to  make  bone  fishing  jigs,  and  in 
ways  of  making  fire  other  than  with  flint  and  steel. 

In  their  treatment  of  social  misfits  these  Indians  are  particularly  humane. 
During  one  of  our  first  visits  to  Elena's  kitchen  we  saw  a  beautiful  woman 
working  on  the  metate .  Her  hair  was  fine  and  long,  and  her  eyes  were  large 
and  shaded  by  thick  lashes.  She  looked  like  a  Madonna.  But  as  she  arose 
from  the  metate  and  turned  tc*leave  the  room,  w^e  got  the  surprise  of  our 
lives.  From  the  rear  we  could  see  that  our  beautiful  lady  was  wearing 
rolled-up  blue  jean  overalls!  Her  costume,  front  view,  had  consisted  of  a 
woman's  blouse,  a  long  full  apron,  and  a  string  of  beads  and  earrings. 

At  the  first  opportunity  I  asked  Constantino  about  this.  He  said,  “He 
does  not  feel  what  he  seems  to  be.  He  dresses  as  he  wishes  he  w^ere.  That 
is  all  right,  because  we  know  the  truth,  and  in  this  way  he  is  happy  too." 

We  saw  transvestites  frequently  in  isolated  communities,  where  they 
are  happy  and  useful.  The  villagers'  attitude  is  one  of  tolerance,  kindness, 
and  watchfulness.  Maria  and  Concha  kept  a  sharp  eye  on  Paula,  who  was 
not  permitted  to  stray,  unescorted,  too  far  from  the  hearth.  Paula's  in¬ 
terests  were  distinctly  feminine,  and  since  he  was  strong,  the  women’s 


162  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

burden  of  carrying  water,  wood,  and  the  heavy  bundles  of  washing  to  and 
from  the  river  was  considerably  lightened.  His  voice  was  particularly  me¬ 
lodious  and  pleasant  and  he  always  sang  at  his  work,  which  he  did  well 
and  painstakingly. 

In  the  more  “civilized”  communities  these  people  are  taken  away  and 
put  on  a  penal  island,  where  they  live  a  miserable  existence  with  other 
convicts.  But  here  they  have  found  their  proper  niche,  and  lead  a  happy 
and  morally  decent  existence.  They  are  made  to  wear  clothes  proper  to 
their  sex,  but  otherwise  they  can  deck  themselves  out  as  they  please,  and 
so  are  able  to  make  the  adjustments  necessary  to  their  mental  and  emo¬ 
tional  well-being. 

The  Wise  Woman,  or  the  Little  Old  One,  as  she  was  sometimes  called, 
was  the  repository  of  all  the  ancient  lore.  The  office  descends  from  mother 
to  daughter  and  carries  with  it  considerable  prestige.  These  Wise  People 
are  highly  secretive  about  the  nature  of  their  remedies,  but  are  undoubtedly 
well-versed  in  herbal  lore  and  other  matters.  One  of  the  remedies  for  com¬ 
mon  ailments  is  a  leaf  similar  to  the  mulberry  leaf.  These  leaves,  pounded, 
make  an  efficacious  poultice  when  applied  to  a  wound  or  sore. 

A  tea  brewed  from  various  dried  leaves  is  given  for  stomach  disorders; 
though  we  never  used  it,  it  seemed  to  work  wonders  with  the  natives. 

The  infusion  for  malaria,  on  the  other  hand,  we  had  ample  opportunity 
to  sample  and  it  most  assuredly  works.  Consisting  of  various  dried  leaves 
put  into  cold  water  and  thoroughly  boiled,  it  is  the  most  villainous  concoc¬ 
tion  ever  invented,  but  I'd  take  it  tomorrow  in  preference  to  quinine  if  the 
need  arose. 

A  small  bush  with  a  yellow  flower  which  we  saw  growing  wild  is  called 
the  “rheumatism  bush,”  and  the  natives  and  many  Mexicans  swear  by  it. 
Its  leaves  are  brewed  green  and  are  said  to  lose  their  potency  when  dried. 

The  uses  of  poisons  are  known,  particularly  poisons  deadly  to  animals 
and  not  to  humans  There  is  a  weed  growing  in  profusion  which  the  na¬ 
tives  pound  on  a  stone  until  it  becomes  a  pulp.  This  they  throw  into  pools 
or  still  water  where  there  are  fish.  The  fish  immediately  die,  but  since 
the  natives  eat  them  the  poison  is  evidently  not  injurious  to  human  beings. 

Notwithstanding  all  the  care,  courtesy,  and  consideration  that  our  friends 
in  Puerto  Escondido  gave  us,  we  wanted  very  much  to  get  to  Salina  Cruz. 
It  is  the  biggest  seaport  on  the  west  coast  of  Mexico,  and  there  we  could 
procure  some  of  the  food  we  needed  to  build  up  our  run-down  bodies.  The 
mere  mention  of  milk,  eggs,  ice  cream,  puddings,  and  fresh  tomatoes  made 
little  shivers  of  delight  run  up  our  spines.  Also  we  wanted  to  gossip  with 
Americans,  talk  English  again  before  we  forgot  how;  and  we  wanted  to 
experience  the  pride  of  seeing  our  canoe  alongside  the  big  ships  from  all 
over  the  world. 

The  day  came  at  last,  and  before  our  departure  Puerto  Escondido  put  on 
its  grandest  fiesta.  All  our  friends  were  present:  the  acting  Port  Captain 


163 


Jungle  Fever 

with  his  famous  pink  shirt,  Constantino  and  his  family,  Carlos  from  up 
country,  Don  Juan  who  owned  the  only  boat  in  the  village  that  was  not  a 
dugout,  Sehor  One-eye,  the  town  character,  and  many  others — and  of 
course  Piloto. 

Piloto,  who  was  the  village  leader  in  everything,  had  put  on  a  shirt  in 
honour  of  his  role  as  master  of  ceremonies.  When  everyone  had  assembled 
he  announced  that  he  had  composed  a  song  to  us.  Then  he  struck  up  a 
theme  on  his  guitar  and  his  friends  joined  in.  The  song  was  called  “Mari¬ 
ner  a  Valiente "  (Valiant  Sailor  Lass).  It  told  in  great  detail  about  the  brave 
girl  who  sailed  in  a  little  boat  from  far-away  California  to  Panama,  and 
how  she  stopped  at  their  village  to  warm  their  hearts  with  her  smile.  It 
was  just  as  sentimental  as  the  Spanish  language  and  Piloto  could  make  it. 
I  looked  at  Ginger,  whose  eyes  streamed  with  tears. 

Carlos,  who  had  left  Pennsylvania  principally  because  he  had  been  looked 
down  upon  for  his  dark  colour,  immediately  felt  called  upon  to  make  some 
disparaging  remarks  about  Piloto's  singing.  He  wanted  to  show  us  that 
he  knew  how  these  matters  were  regarded  in  the  States,  I  suspect.  I  re¬ 
minded  him  that  we  were  not  in  Pennsylvania,  and  that  Piloto  had  waited 
on  us  hand  and  foot  for  two  months.  If  my  feelings  were  not  outraged  by 
Piloto's  balladry,  I  asked,  why  should  Carlos  mind?  He  still  grumbled, 
until  I  emphatically  told  him  that  since  Piloto's  colour  had  been  no  bar  to 
our  accepting  his  services,  neither  Ginger  nor  myself  had  any  intention  of 
drawing  the  colour  line  at  this  late  date  and  spoiling  his  big  moment.  That 
big  West  Indian  Negro  had  been  a  good  friend  to  us  both  and  we  were 
proud  of  his  friendship. 

The  fiesta  lasted  until  midnight,  then  we  moved  the  canoe  and  equip¬ 
ment  close  to  the  water  so  that  we  could  leave  at  daylight.  While  we 
were  making  up  our  bed  several  natives  came  carrying  blankets  and  pavil- 
lones  (light  covering  to  keep  out  mosquitoes),  prepared  to  sleep  on  the 
sand  close  to  the  canoe.  Soon  a  group  of  women  laden  with  food  put  in 
appearance,  and  shortly  fires  were  lighted.  No  one  slept.  Instead,  we  all 
sat  round  the  fire  talking  until  the  morning  star  rose  over  the  hill  and  the 
women  began  to  prepare  breakfast. 

The  Vagabunda  was  heavily  laden  with  gifts  and  we  were  heavy-hearted 
as  we  took  off.  On  the  shore  our  many  friends  stood  shouting  until  we 
were  out  of  sight,  “ Adios ,  amigos ,  que  le  vaya  bien.”  (“God  go  with  you, 
my  friends,  may  you  go  well.") 

We  cannot  help  thinking  how  much  of  value  may  lie  here  for  the  patient 
researcher.  These  Huicholes,  for  instance,  are  famous  throughout  Mexico 
for  their  medicinal  lore  and  are  frequently  called  upon  to  treat  people  of 
the  highest  position  who  know  the  benefits  of  scientific  medicine.  There 
might  be  something  of  value  here  for  the  pharmacologist. 

The  research  worker  who  hopes  to  be  successful  with  Indians,  however, 
will  not  go  traipsing  into  their  villages  at  the  head  of  a  retinue,  flanked  by 


164  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

interpreters,  and  set  up  his  little  court  in  the  jungle.  Nor  will  he  hale  the 
Indians  before  him  as  before  a  Congressional  committee.  They  will  only 
laugh,  and  mislead  him  as  they  have  his  predecessors.  In  many  villages  he 
will  be  lucky  if  he  is  not  shot  at  sight.  They  won't  wait  to  find  out  whether 
he  is  a  scientist,  a  philanthropist,  or  a  soldier  of  fortune.  And  they  won't 
care. 

Indians  are  highly  intuitive  as  to  people's  motives;  they  are  proud, 
sensitive,  and  independent.  The  white  man's  ill-concealed  feeling  of  supe¬ 
riority  is  apparent  to  them  immediately,  and  since  they  do  not  feel  inferior, 
they  hate  him  for  it.  They  know  he  is  passing  judgment  upon  their  way  of 
living,  which  is  based  upon  concepts  of  which  he  knows  nothing.  The  fol¬ 
lowing  incident  is  a  case  in  point. 

One  night  when  we  were  first  able  to  be  about,  we  were  invited  to  din¬ 
ner  at  Constantino's  house.  As  Elena  served  the  dinner,  she  said  in  a 
voice  full  of  mockery,  “Of  course  we  are  very  poor.  Isn't  it  too  bad  we  have 
so  little?''  Both  Ginger  and  I  looked  at  her  in  astonishment,  for  Indians 
do  not  apologize  for  lack  of  anything,  and  the  fare  was  more  than  bounti¬ 
ful.  Questioning  brought  out  the  fact  that  a  little  prior  to  our  visit  a  yacht¬ 
ing  party  had  come  ashore,  and  strolling  through  the  village  had  com¬ 
mented  in  Spanish  on  the  natives'  poverty. 

Since  Indians  do  not  have  the  white  man's  pathological  obsession  with 
things,  he  is  not  only  deeply  offended  by  our  attitude — he  thinks  us  crazy 
as  well.  His  values  are  ethical  and  aesthetic.  Our  factual  and  material 
values  impress  him  not  at  all. 

White  men  among  Indians  often  pry  in  a  silly  and  indiscreet  manner 
into  matters  of  the  gravest  import  to  them — customs  and  religion.  This 
causes  trouble.  Men  who  should  know  better,  carelessly  or  curiously  han¬ 
dle  what  they  are  pleased  to  call  the  Indian’s  idols.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
these  symbols  have  no  more  idolatrous  significance  than  has  the  Eucharist 
for  a  Christian. 

The  Indian's  conversational  trick  of  discussing  natural  phenomena  in 
animistic  terms  is  another  stumbling  block  to  the  white  man's  comprehen¬ 
sion  of  Indian  psychology.  To  give  an  example  of  their  manner  of  speech: 

Ginger  was  sewing  after  dark  one  night  with  the  aid  of  a  lighted  wick 
floating  in  coco-nut  oil.  Concha  saw  her  and  exclaimed,  “You  mustn't  do 
that!  Don't  you  know  that  if  you  sew  after  dark,  the  spirit  of  the  needle 
will  pierce  your  eyes?”  That  was  the  Indian  way  of  saying  that  your  eyes 
will  hurt  you  if  you  sew  by  a  poor  light. 

Another  time,  Ginger  with  the  other  women  had  been  washing  clothes 
in  the  river.  Afterwards  she  started  to  iron  with  a  heated  flat  rock.  “No, 
no,  you  must  not  iron  the  same  day  that  you  wash,''  said  Maria.  “The 
spirit  of  the  rock  will  hurt  your  head  and  you  will  sneeze.''  In  other  words, 
you  will  contract  a  cold  in  the  head  or  at  least  a  headache  from  the  rapid 


Jungle  Fever  1 66 

shift  in  temperature.  In  an  Indian  household,  I  might  add,  the  cook  never 
washes  the  dishes,  which  Ginger  says  is  good  news. 

Indians,  where  they  have  had  the  good  fortune  to  escape  the  contami¬ 
nating  effects  of  white  civilization,  are  highly  ethical  in  their  human  rela¬ 
tionships — indeed,  that  one  thing  has  contributed  more  than  any  other  to 
their  spoliation  by  the  whites.  An  Indian  would  scorn  to  do  for  personal 
gain  the  things  that  are  the  very  bone  and  sinew  of  commercial  civiliza¬ 
tions.  They  are  chaste  and  moral  to  a  degree  that  should  bring  the  blush 
of  shame  to  the  cheeks  of  those  who  seek  to  “civilize,"  “convert,"  or 
“exploit"  them  as  savages.  Indian  men  are  frequently  forced  to  deal  sum¬ 
marily  with  white  men  because  of  their  casual  attitude  toward  Indian 
women. 

Everywhere  we  went,  wherever  we  had  a  chance  to  talk  with  them  at 
length,  we  found  them  not  only  holding  to  the  tradition  of  a  past  greatness, 
but  believing  profoundly  in  their  future  greatness. 

There  is  a  crying  need  for  white  men,  who  ask  nothing  for  themselves, 
to  go  among  these  people  and  patiently  teach  and  patiently  learn.  Much 
may  reward  such  a  seeker.  It  is  not  improbable  that  there  are  men  living 
in  Central  America  today  who  can  read  the  great  calendar  stone  of  the 
Aztecs  and  the  Mayans  and  who  know  where  invaluable  source  material 
relating  to  these  nations  lies  hidden;  men  who  know  the  secrets  of  medicinal 
plants  and  nature  lore.  The  investigator,  however,  will  have  to  cast  his 
lot  with  the  Indians,  eat  their  food,  live  in  huts  as  they  do,  and  not  con¬ 
cern  himself  overmuch  with  the  gold  that  lies  in  their  hills  and  rivers. 


Chapter  Eighteen 


MINOR  MISADVENTURES 

Our  muscles,  weak  after  our  long  convalescence,  ached  from  the  unac¬ 
customed  strain  of  the  first  day's  paddling  as  we  headed  down  the 
coast  towards  Salina  Cruz.  We  were  more  than  relieved  to  find  ourselves 
near  Puerto  Angel  in  the  late  afternoon.  The  little  town,  as  we  approached 
it,  seemed  to  be  a  lovely  place  set  well  back  in  a  deep  cove  banked  on 
both  sides  by  high  cliffs. 

The  officials  came  to  meet  us  as  we  pulled  into  the  beach.  A  rotund, 
jovial  Port  Captain  with  a  Charlie  Chaplin  moustache,  looked  over  our 
papers  hurriedly  and  pronounced  them  in  order.  We  asked  him  where  we 
might  change  our  clothes  and  he  suggested  the  bodega  (warehouse)  just  off 
the  beach.  As  we  started  off  with  our  shore  clothes  bag,  he  called  us  back 
and  said  it  was  not  safe  to  leave  our  canoe  unguarded.  A  large  crowd  of 
natives  had  gathered  about  the  boat  and  were  tapping  it  and  pulling  at  the 
equipment  lashed  to  the  deck.  Sensing  our  uncertainty,  he  called  two  of 
his  men  and  put  them  in  charge  of  the  canoe.  We  followed  him  to  the 
warehouse,  which  was  merely  a  shed  on  stilts.  Behind  bags  of  coffee  we 
changed  into  our  good  clothes,  and  upon  emerging  were  met  by  the  Factor 
(shipping  agent)  and  the  Captain. 

"‘Won't  you  sit  down?"  invited  the  Captain,  pointing  to  a  cement  bench 
at  the  edge  of  the  beach.  They  made  a  few  polite  inquiries  about  our  voy¬ 
age.  We  answered  them  and  the  conversation  languished.  Ginger  inquired 
as  to  their  wives  and  families,  but  this,  contrary  to  past  experience  brought 
uninterested  response. 

Here  we  were,  all  dressed  up  and  nothing  to  do.  Badly  spoiled  in  the 
native  villages,  we  had  grown  accustomed  to  the  idea  that  our  appearance 
ought  to  call  forth  some  interest.  It  certainly  didn’t  in  Puerto  Angel.  We 
told  the  Captain  that  we  should  like  to  stay  all  night  and  he  directed  us  to 
a  place  that  rented  rooms.  When  we  learnt  that  the  price  for  one  night’s 
lodging  was  five  pesos  ($2.00),  we  decided  to  sleep  in  the  canoe  and 
cook  supper  on  the  beach. 

With  the  aid  of  several  natives  we  pulled  the  canoe  under  the  ware¬ 
house,  where  we  had  head  room  beneath  the  pilings.  It  was  the  only  place 
that  we  could  find. 

I  had  gotten  the  Captain’s  permission  to  build  a  fire  on  the  beach,  but 
when  I  began  to  get  the  paraphernalia  ready  for  Ginger,  the  young  sports 


Minor  Misadventures 


167 


from  the  village  insisted  on  sticking  their  noses  into  everything.  I  zipped 
the  cockpit  shut  in  disgust.  Gangs  of  small  boys,  despite  the  protests  of 
the  Port  Captain's  aide,  threw  sand  on  the  canoe  and  generally  acted  badly. 
We  decided  to  go  for  a  walk  in  the  hope  that  they  would  go  home  in  the 
meantime. 

After  a  walk  through  the  village  with  its  few  adobe  houses  and  thatched 
huts,  we  returned  to  the  canoe.  Most  of  the  young  men  and  boys  had  left. 
I  collected  driftwood  and  built  a  fire,  whereupon  they  promptly  returned. 
Ginger  was  having  a  tough  time  trying  to  cook  in  her  best  dress  without 
soiling  it.  They  poked  fun  at  her  toasting  tortillas,  they  tossed  sand  at  our 
food — wishing  audibly  that  they  had  nerve  enough  to  toss  sand  into  it. 
They  wrestled  on  the  beach  and  made  loud  remarks  intended  for  our  ears. 
Used  to  the  grave,  courteous  Indians,  we  could  have  wrung  these  off¬ 
scourings'  necks. 

An  automobile  raced  into  town  and  slid  to  a  stop  close  to  the  beach.  A 
man  in  European  clothes  with  a  notebook  and  pencil  in  his  hands  sprinted 
towards  us.  I  groaned.  "A  newspaper  reporter."  He  threw  rapid-fire  ques¬ 
tions  at  us  and  showed  us  clippings  from  Mexico  City  papers  describing 
us  as  "intrepid,  gallant  adventurers,  facing  impossible  hardships."  Ginger 
squirmed  uneasily,  the  fire  went  out,  and  the  tortillas  grew  cold.  He  left 
with  as  much  flurry  as  he  had  come.  Soon  high-pitched,  elegant  Spanish 
drifted  down  to  us  from  the  Port  Captain’s  office. 

We  returned  to  our  dinner  preparations,  to  be  interrupted  this  time  by 
a  minor  port  official.  "The  Captain  wishes  to  see  you,"  he  beamed. 

"What  now?"  I  muttered  to  Ginger. 

"I  will  guard  the  canoe  while  you  are  gone,"  he  said. 

We  plodded  up  the  sand  to  the  Captain's  office,  Ginger  patting  her  hair 
into  place  and  powdering  her  nose  as  we  went.  The  Captain  greeted  us 
with  greater  cordiality  than  before  and  invited  us  to  dinner.  The  dinner 
was  excellent  and  we  spent  a  pleasant  evening.  As  we  rose  to  go  he  sug¬ 
gested  that  since  he  had  a  spare  room  we  should  spend  the  night  as  his 
guests.  We  declined,  on  the  plea  of  an  early  start  and  the  necessity  of 
guarding  the  canoe. 

"I  will  immediately  send  a  telegram  to  Salina  Cruz  and  tell  them  that 
you  are  coming,  so  that  when  you  arrive,  they  will  know  who  you  are," 
he  said,  with  emphasis  on  the  last  six  words.  He  was  anxious  to  do  any¬ 
thing  that  he  possibly  could,  he  said. 

"It  makes  a  lot  of  difference  who  people  think  you  are — in  some  places," 
I  commented  to  Ginger,  as  we  walked  back  to  camp.  "If  Mexico  City 
notices  us  we  are  big  shots  in  Puerto  Angel." 

"Don't  forget,  either,"  she  answered,  "that  we’d  be  thrown  out  of  a 
lot  of  places  if  they  even  suspected  that  Mexico  City  had  ever  heard  of  us. 
The  Indians  aren’t  interested  in  Mexico  City’s  pets.  Self-interest  has  some¬ 
thing  to  do  with  it,  you  know." 


168  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

Our  "watch  dog"  was  dozing,  his  back  against  the  canoe.  He  bade  us  a 
sleepy  good  night  and  departed.  Immediately  a  group  of  young  bucks  put 
in  appearance.  Ginger  sighed  with  exasperation,  as  she  took  off  her  shore 
dress  behind  the  canvas  I  held  round  her.  We  put  the  canvas  over  the 
cockpit  and  settled  down,  but  not  to  sleep.  The  rowdy  boys  threw  sand  and 
small  rocks  on  the  hull  of  the  canoe.  Ginger  muttered,  "Civilization  cer¬ 
tainly  doesn't  agree  with  these  people." 

Our  molesters  took  heart  at  our  silence  and  grew  so  annoying  that 
finally  we  could  stand  it  no  longer.  "Come  on,  let's  get  out  of  here,"  I 
said. 

While  coming  in  across  the  bay  I  had  seen  a  little  graveyard.  If  I  knew 
my  Mexicans,  they  would  hesitate  a  long  while  before  following  us  there. 
Ginger  smiled  as  we  paddled  across  the  bay  and  beached  our  canoe  near 
the  rows  of  white  crosses.  We  were  soon  as  quiet  as  our  silent  companions. 

As  we  pulled  out  of  the  bay  in  the  morning  we  fell  to  discussing  the  old 
question  of  what  benefit  our  kind  of  civilization  confers  upon  a  people  alien 
to  it.  The  people  of  Puerto  Angel  had  contacts  with  the  outside  world — 
telephones,  the  telegraph,  roads,  a  considerable  business  in  shipping,  more 
gadgets  than  the  people  of  Puerto  Escondido  had  ever  heard  of,  much  less 
possessed.  Was  the  net  result  in  favor  of  Puerto  Angel?  We  thought  not. 
Puerto  Escondido  still  believed  in  the  traditional  culture  and  values  of  its 
Indian  heritage.  No  one  there  could  ever  be  lonely  or  hungry  or  feel  shut 
out  in  any  way  because  he  had  no  money,  or  suffer  a  nervous  breakdown 
because  the  competitive  pace  was  too  stiff  for  him.  He  was  never  idle,  as 
were  the  peons  in  Puerto  Angel,  and  his  heart  couldn't  be  broken  because 
"industry  didn’t  need  him."  We  both  passionately  hoped  that  nothing 
would  ever  interfere  with  the  busy,  happy,  socially  useful,  communal  life 
of  Puerto  Escondido,  and  other  places  like  it. 

We  spent  a  pleasant  day  sailing  past  little  coves,  sand  beaches,  and  high 
cliffs.  At  times  we  paddled  so  close  to  the  rocks  that  we  could  reach  out 
and  touch  them.  We  landed  several  times  simply  for  the  novelty  of  being 
able  to  do  so  without  shooting  heavy  surf. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  we  put  in  at  Sacrificios  Harbor,  and  camped  in  a 
tiny  cove  on  the  north  side.  After  our  months  of  constant  association  with 
people  the  solitude  was  pleasant,  and  we  stayed  over  a  day  for  fishing, 
swimming,  and  hiking.  There  were  more  iguanas  here  than  at  any  place 
along  the  coast. 

We  sailed  leisurely  along  the  beautiful  mainland  for  several  hours.  The 
canoe  drifted  while  we  dived  for  shells  or  stopped  to  fish.  It  was  hard  to 
believe  that  we  were  entering  the  Gulf  of  Tehuantepec.  It  is  said  to  be 
the  most  dangerous  section  along  the  Pacific  coast.  Even  the  great  ocean 
liners  shape  their  courses  to  avoid  its  treacherous  northers,  or  hug  the  coast 
line  less  than  half  a  mile  from  shore  in  search  of  some  lee  against  the  wind. 
We  consulted  the  Pilot  Guide ,  which  said,  "These  northers  sweep  across 


Minor  Misadventures 


169 


the  Isthmus  of  Tehuantepec  from  the  Gulf  of  Mexico.  Here  the  wind  blows 
all  the  year  round.  The  violent  northers  of  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  frequently 
cross  the  Isthmus  through  the  opening  between  the  Mexican  and  Guate¬ 
mala  mountains,  and  blow  in  sharp  squalls.  These  heavy  blasts,  which  have 
the  local  name  of  ‘Tehuantepecers,’  blow  with  great  violence  from  north 
to  north-north-east,  raising  a  very  short  high  sea,  and  are  felt  two  hundred 
miles  off  the  coast.  They  are  not  indicated  by  the  barometer/'  This  was, 
indeed,  something  to  think  about. 

In  the  afternoon  we  came  to  a  nice  little  island  lying  about  three  hun¬ 
dred  and  fifty  yards  offshore.  It  is  called  Cacaluta  on  the  charts,  and  behind 
it  lies  a  rather  steep  but  fine  sand  beach.  A  canyon  opening  almost  from 
the  water’s  edge  promised  game  and  fresh  water.  We  secured  our  gear 
as  usual  and  paddled  in  behind  the  island  for  a  landing.  “This,"  I  an¬ 
nounced,  “is  going  to  be  easy.  Wish  all  our  landings  were  like  this."  A 
small  swell  picked  us  up  and  carried  us  in.  The  Vagabunda  s  nose  dug  into 
the  soft  sand,  though,  owing  to  the  steepness  of  the  beach,  her  stern  was  in 
fairly  deep  water.  As  we  stepped  out  a  large,  frisky  swell  stole  up  behind 
us,  picked  up  the  stern,  and  none  too  gently  brought  it  down  on  our  heads. 
We  crawled  out  painfully  bruised. 

We  soon  discovered  that  we  had  landed  in  a  dry  river  bed.  Up  the  sandy 
ravine  were  a  lot  of  tracks,  similar  to,  but  narrower  than  a  turtle’s,  with 
a  zigzag  line  between  them — as  though  the  creature  had  pulled  a  stick  be¬ 
hind  it.  They  were  alligator  tracks,  and  from  the  number  of  the  markings 
we  knew  that  there  were  many  of  them.  Just  back  of  the  beach  we  found  a 
small  lagoon.  The  only  camping  place  seemed  to  be  where  we  had  landed. 

After  dinner  we  circled  the  lagoon  into  the  back  country,  hoping  to  find 
fresh  running  water.  The  whole  country  was  dry.  All  the  wild  life  seemed 
to  be  concentrated  on  that  little  lagoon.  Walking  was  slow  because  every 
fifty  feet  we  had  to  stop  and  pick  off  the  ticks.  Each  bush  and  twig  was  alive 
with  them.  In  addition  to  the  ticks,  mosquitoes,  gnats,  jenjenesy  mosco 
cabezones ,  and  horseflies  had  picked  this  spot  in  which  to  spend  the  dry 
season. 

On  our  way  back  to  the  beach  we  cut  in  close  to  the  head  of  the  lagoon. 
Here  there  was  a  deep  pool  with  a  large  tree  growing  out  across  it.  At  the 
sound  of  our  approach  a  dozen  alligators  slid  down  its  steep  banks  and  hid 
in  the  water.  It  occurred  to  me  that  it  might  be  fun  to  lasso  an  alligator 
and  really  get  a  good  look  at  a  live  one.  I  suggested  to  Ginger  that  we 
return  in  the  morning  and  see  what  we  could  do. 

We  followed  the  lagoon  back  to  camp  and  were  surprised  at  the  num¬ 
ber  of  alligators  concentrated  at  that  point.  The  rains  for  several  seasons 
had  apparently  been  negligible,  and  they  had  all  come  down  from  up  the 
river. 

After  dark  the  jungle  set  up  a  noise  which  is  like  nothing  else  in  the 
world.  The  bellowing  of  the  alligators  mingled  with  the  screams  of  a  tiger 


170 


Enchanted  Vagabonds 

and  the  crashing  of  brush,  as  either  pursuer  or  pursued  ran  by.  There  is 
nothing  pastoral  about  these  jungles. 

The  next  morning,  armed  with  a  lariat,  harpoon,  and  killing  lance,  we 
started  up  the  lagoon.  Alligator  hunters  may  have  a  technique,  but  we 
never  mastered  it.  We  stalked  one  after  another  only  to  have  them  slip 
into  the  water  when  we  were  still  a  considerable  distance  away.  We  gave 
it  up  and  went  back  to  camp,  but  our  defeat  irked  us.  We  decided  to  try 
a  different  method — to  go  in  after  the  alligator.  Authorities  say  they  have 
underwater  caves,  but  we  couldn’t  find  any.  We  couldn’t  even  see  an  alli¬ 
gator,  though  we  could  see  the  ripples  as  they  swam  round  in  the  shallow 
water. 

We  cut  long  poles  and  swished  round  in  the  shallows,  on  the  theory 
that  the  alligator  might  bite  the  pole.  I  kept  my  harpoon  handy.  Jabbing 
with  the  poles  at  each  step,  we  came  at  last  to  the  pool.  Here  it  seemed  we 
had  corralled  the  entire  colony.  They  were  constantly  in  motion,  but  as 
they  stayed  underneath  the  water  it  was  hopeless  to  attempt  to  lasso  one. 
If  I  wanted  an  alligator  it  was  apparent  that  I  would  have  to  harpoon  it. 
My  plan  was  to  climb  the  tree  that  overhung  the  pool  and  make  my  cast 
from  there.  Ginger  was  doubtful  about  the  success  of  this  manoeuvre  and 
said  that  I  would  only  chase  the  alligators  out  of  the  pool.  "Not,”  I  said, 
"if  you  will  stand  at  the  other  end  and  keep  them  from  going  out.” 

"And  what's  to  prevent  them  from  taking  a  little  nip?  That  wouldn't 
be  so  hard  with  a  mouth  like  a  steam  shovel.  No  thank  you,  Mr.  Lamb.” 

I  did  induce  her,  however,  to  stand  on  one  side  and  slap  the  water  with 
her  pole  in  an  effort  to  keep  the  alligators  in  the  pool. 

It  was  ticklish  work  climbing  the  tree,  but  at  last  I  got  fairly  well  out 
on  a  limb  that  overhung  the  centre  of  the  pool.  The  next  thing  was  to  find 
a  good  throwing  position,  and  I  cautiously  began  worming  my  way  to¬ 
wards  a  couple  of  branches  that  formed  a  brace.  There  seemed  to  be  plenty 
of  alligators  in  the  pool  below,  for  each  time  a  twig  bent  or  a  bit  of  bark 
fell,  it  caused  a  great  commotion.  Ginger,  meanwhile,  was  slapping  the 
water  and  admonishing  me  to  be  careful  and  not  fall  off  the  limb. 

I  had  reached  my  objective  and  was  getting  into  position  to  throw  the 
harpoon,  when  I  heard  something  crack  and  Ginger  scream.  My  perch 
began  to  sink  slowly  towards  the  water.  I  tried  to  work  my  way  back  to 
safety  but  a  snag  interrupted  my  progress,  and  again  the  limb  cracked. 
Every  movement  I  made  resulted  in  a  crack.  This  slow  torture  soon  ended. 
The  limb  gave  way  with  a  crash.  I  plummeted  into  the  pool  and  hit  the 
water  swimming.  It  seemed  to  my  excited  imagination  that  a  thousand  gap¬ 
ing  jaws  were  open  to  receive  me  as  I  clawed  my  way  up  the  bank.  I 
looked  round  to  see  how  many  alligators  were  following  me  but  they 
were  all  going  in  every  direction  except  the  one  that  I  had  chosen.  I  could 
hear  them  crashing  in  the  brush. 

As  we  started  back  to  camp  with  my  gun  full  of  mud  and  my  person 


A 


, 


■ 


Minor  Misadventures 


17  S 


covered  with  it,  Ginger  began  to  laugh  hysterically.  I  demanded  to  know 
what  seemed  so  funny.  “Oh,  everything, ”  she  gasped.  “The  alligators 
beating  you  out  of  the  pool — and  you — trying  to  swim  in  three  feet  of 
water — and  there  were  only  four  of  them — and  they  were  just  as  fright¬ 
ened  as  you  were - ” 

The  next  morning,  with  no  further  nonsense,  we  shot  two  large  alli¬ 
gators.  The  rest  of  the  day  was  spent  preparing  their  hides,  which,  because 
of  their  thickness  and  toughness,  would  make  good  sandals. 

Down  the  coast  the  following  day  we  came  to  a  deep  little  bay  called 
Puerto  Guatulco.  As  there  was  a  village  at  the  head  of  the  bay,  we  about 
faced  and  went  down  a  little  further  to  a  place  called  Tangolunda.  Seeing 
no  sign  of  natives,  we  landed  on  a  smooth  beach  on  the  south  side  of  a 
great  cliff  which  jutted  out  into  the  tiny  bay. 

A  cursory  examination  of  the  back  country  showed  it  to  be  swampy  and 
almost  impenetrable,  so  we  returned  to  camp.  Two  natives  were  standing 
by  the  canoe,  handling  our  equipment  and  fishing  gear.  This  was  an  im¬ 
mediate  warning,  for  a  native  will  rarely  examine  anything  without  first 
asking  permission.  I  started  towards  them  with  Ginger  following.  She  was 
wearing  shorts,  and  deciding  it  was  better  not  to  appear  before  them  in 
such  scanty  garb,  she  returned  to  camp. 

They  were  unpleasant-looking  customers  with  shifty  eyes  and  proffered 
an  indolent  greeting  in  Spanish.  I  started  to  return  their  greeting,  then 
changed  my  mind,  and  nodded  my  head,  grinning.  “Do  you  speak  Spanish?” 
one  of  them  asked. 

I  shook  my  head  and  said,  “No  sabe.”  This  expression  leaves  little 
doubt  in  a  native's  mind  about  one's  ability  to  speak  Spanish.  No  se  is  cor¬ 
rect.  “No  sabe”  is  similar  to  “I  doesn't  know”  in  English. 

“I  would  like  to  buy  this  spear.  How  much  do  you  want  for  it?”  one  of 
them  asked.  They  winked  at  each  other  when  I  made  no  reply. 

“He  wants  just  two  bullets,”  said  one  of  them.  “Just  two  bullets." 

“No,”  said  the  other.  “He  wants  one  bullet,  because  I  want  the  lady.” 

I  could  have  killed  them  on  the  spot,  but  I  made  no  reply.  They  watched 
me  narrowly,  waiting  to  see  what  I  would  do.  Then  they  looked  at  each 
other,  tossed  the  equipment  back  on  deck,  and  without  further  words  saun¬ 
tered  off  towards  the  cliff.  As  long  as  they  were  in  sight,  I  walked  slowly 
back  to  camp.  When  they  had  passed  from  view,  we  hurriedly  packed  ev¬ 
erything,  and  Ginger  stood  guard  while  1  carried  the  equipment  to  the 
canoe. 

We  pushed  off,  paddling  as  fast  as  we  could  and  looking  back  every 
few  strokes  towards  the  beach.  Then  we  saw  them  running  out  of  the  brush 
south  of  where  our  camp  had  been.  They  had  circled  back  through  the  dense 
undergrowth  and  had  come  out  on  the  opposite  side  with  the  clear  inten¬ 
tion  of  ambushing  us. 

I  ducked  and  reached  for  my  gun  as  Ginger  warned,  “They're  going  to 


1 74  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

shoot!"  One  fellow  was  taking  careful  aim  with  his  rifle.  Smoke  blotted 
out  his  figure,  and  a  bullet  whined  overhead. 

We  opened  up  on  the  pair  of  them  at  the  same  moment,  emptying  our 
clips,  and  from  then  on  there  was  nothing  to  shoot  at.  After  refilling  our 
clips  we  went  back  to  the  paddles  and  were  soon  in  the  heavy  chop  of  the 
ocean,  which  gave  every  indication  that  a  storm  was  on  its  way. 

Rather  than  ride  out  a  storm  all  night  we  hoisted  sail  and  headed  back 
for  Puerto  Guatulco.  Dirty  weather  struck  us  before  we  were  half-way,  and 
we  fought  through  the  chop  until  9  p.m.,  when  we  entered  the  shelter  of 
the  bay. 

No  lights  gleamed  from  the  village  and  it  was  too  dark  to  attempt  a 
landing,  so  we  pulled  in  under  the  shelter  of  a  small  point  and  dropped  our 
tiny  anchor.  We  could  see  nothing,  and  it  was  impossible  to  know  how 
far  from  shore  we  were.  Heavy  swells  coming  in  rocked  the  boat  violently. 

Throughout  the  tedious  night  we  took  turns  keeping  watch,  but  sunrise 
brought  little  comfort.  Our  anchorage  was  precarious;  black  rocks  thrust 
their  jagged  heads  out  of  the  water  round  us;  and  the  storm  still  raged 
outside.  Why  we  weren’t  crushed  upon  them  during  the  night  remains  a 
mystery. 

The  country  ahead  looked  hungry — just  as  hungry  as  we  were,  for  we 
had  not  eaten  since  noon  of  the  previous  day.  As  we  worked  our  way 
closer  inshore,  we  could  see  no  signs  of  life  round  the  village.  That  in 
itself  was  not  reassuring.  No  dogs  barked,  no  donkeys  brayed,  not  one 
rooster  crowed  at  the  rising  sun. 

Ginger  objected  to  landing.  "What  do  you  want  to  do?"  she  asked. 
"Get  shot  at?"  So  I  left  her  in  the  canoe  with  the  sail  up  and  ready  for  a 
quick  retreat,  while  I  cautiously  waded  towards  the  beach. 

My  trigger  finger  felt  jumpy  as  I  tied  the  stern  line  to  a  boulder  and 
approached  the  nearest  hut.  Peeking  warily  into  doorways,  I  saw  that  their 
interiors  presented  the  same  desolation  that  prevailed  outside.  The  houses 
had  not  been  occupied  for  several  months  at  least,  and  marauding  animals 
had  wrought  havoc  with  what  few  possessions  the  natives  had  left  behind. 

After  beaching  the  canoe,  we  started  out  to  find  what  story  this  de¬ 
serted  village  had  to  tell.  It  was  beautifully  situated,  and  had  at  one  time 
housed  at  least  two  hundred  people.  A  fertile  valley  lay  behind  it  and 
there  was  nothing  to  account  for  its  desertion,  unless,  as  Ginger  suggested, 
an  epidemic  had  killed  off  the  villagers.  The  tiny  graveyard  did  not  con¬ 
firm  the  theory.  There  were  many  graves  but  none  of  them  was  very 
recent. 

A  wide  path  led  from  the  village  to  the  back  country.  Following  that  we 
came  to  an  old  well  of  Spanish  masonry.  Only  a  little  water  remained  at  the 
bottom.  This  was  undoubtedly  the  reason  why  the  natives  had  left  their 
village.  There  was  enough  for  our  use,  however,  and  we  walked  back  to 
get  our  five-gallon  still  cans  and  the  lariat. 


Minor  Misadventures 


175 


Back  at  the  well  I  lowered  myself  by  means  of  the  lariat,  and  cleaned 
the  debris  from  the  little  pool.  Ginger  let  the  can  down  and  after  the 
water  had  settled  1  filled  it.  I  scrambled  up  the  mossy  sides  of  the  old  well 
and  when  I  reached  the  top,  started  pulling  the  heavy  can  up  after  me.  As 
I  leaned  over  the  brink  to  grab  it  the  improvised  handle  pulled  loose  and 
the  can  went  hurtling  to  the  bottom.  We  looked  at  each  other  in  dismay. 
It  was  smashed  beyond  repair. 

Going  down  again,  I  filled  the  second  can,  making  the  line  fast,  not 
only  to  the  bail,  but  round  the  can  as  well.  Back  at  the  beach  it  was  so 
depressing  that  we  went  to  the  outer  extremity  of  the  bay,  where  we 
found  a  little  canyon,  before  setting  up  camp. 

While  Ginger  got  breakfast,  I  fastened  the  heavy  can  securely  to  a 
crossbar  over  the  fire,  where  twenty  minutes  boiling  would  kill  whatever 
germs  were  in  it. 

In  the  afternoon  we  went  hunting.  The  next  day  would  be  our  wedding 
anniversary,  and  Ginger  felt  that  it  called  for  an  especially  nice  meal.  All 
day  I  had  been  trying  vainly  to  think  of  something  I  might  give  her  for  a 
present.  I  had  wanted  to  make  her  a  bag  from  alligator  skins,  but  they 
were  not  yet  sufficiently  cured.  One  small  turkey  was  the  result  of  our 
afternoon's  tramp  and  we  broiled  it  for  supper. 

Afterwards  we  sailed  out  in  the  canoe  to  have  a  look  at  the  ocean.  It 
was  still  raging,  so  we  reluctantly  returned  to  camp.  The  tide  had  gone 
out,  and  because  of  the  rocks  we  could  not  beach  the  canoe.  As  we  manoeu¬ 
vred  for  a  safe  anchorage,  Ginger  slipped  on  the  wet  deck  and  sprawled  on 
her  face,  almost  going  over  the  side.  A  black  object  flashed  over  her  shoul¬ 
der  and  into  the  water.  She  grabbed  for  her  holster  but  the  gun  was  gone. 

I  attached  a  fishline  to  a  heavy  sinker  and  dropped  it  as  near  to  the  spot 
as  possible.  With  this  as  a  marker  I  dived  for  the  gun,  but  the  heavy  surge 
kicked  up  so  much  sand  that  I  could  see  nothing.  It  was  soon  too  dark  to 
continue,  so  I  abandoned  the  search  until  the  next  day.  Ginger  sobbed  her¬ 
self  to  sleep. 

We  were  up  at  daylight,  and  while  she  prepared  breakfast  I  went  out  to 
cut  a  forked  stick  to  use  as  a  scraper  in  hunting  for  the  gun.  I  reached  in  my 
pocket  for  my  knife,  and  let  out  a  yell.  It,  too,  was  gone. 

Our  anniversary  was  a  dismal  day.  I  dived  until  I  was  exhausted,  rested 
awhile,  and  then  dived  again.  Ginger  did  her  best  to  hide  how  much  she 
felt  the  loss  of  her  gun.  It  had  been  my  first  anniversary  gift  to  her  and 
she  was  attached  to  it  for  that  reason  as  well  as  for  its  usefulness. 

Before  darkness  fell,  I  went  out  to  have  one  more  try.  The  incoming 
tide  had  washed  a  lot  of  the  sand  away,  and  here  and  there  black  spots 
were  visible.  I  swam  from  one  to  another,  and  finally,  just  as  I  was  about 
to  abandon  the  search,  my  hand  closed  on  the  twenty-two. 

I  wrapped  it  up  in  leaves  and  tied  it  with  fibre.  By  my  place  at  supper 
lay  a  small  package  wrapped  in  leaves,  tied  with  grass,  and  decorated  with 


176  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

coco  fibre.  We  unwrapped  our  packages  together.  Mine  was  the  lost  pocket 
knife. 

The  norther  held  us  up  for  four  days.  The  second  day  we  ran  out  of 
water  and  had  to  distil  it  from  sea  water  without  the  use  of  our  second 
can.  By  splitting  a  sapling  and  taking  out  the  pith,  then  wrapping  it  tightly 
with  vines,  we  managed  to  make  a  second  pipe  of  sorts.  This  and  our 
original  copper  tubing  I  attached  to  our  canteens,  using  the  five-gallon  can 
as  the  “steamer.  ”  Wrapping  the  canteens  in  bits  of  wet  clothing,  we  kept 
them  cool  enough  for  the  steam  to  condense.  At  first  the  makeshift  wooden 
pipe  lost  more  steam  than  passed  through  it,  but  as  its  fibres  swelled  it 
worked  fairly  well.  The  water  tasted  woody  but  was  not  too  unpalatable. 
Under  the  circumstances  we  were  not  fussy. 

We  finally  got  away  from  that  miserable  little  beach,  but  we  fought 
heavy  weather  day  and  night.  In  our  anxiety  to  reach  Salina  Cruz  we 
passed  up  one  or  two  fair  landings,  hoping  to  keep  on  until  we  reached 
the  Bay  of  Bamba.  There  we  intended  to  stop  long  enough  to  replenish  our 
water  and  food. 

Sailing  became  increasingly  difficult.  Short  high  seas,  fifteen  feet  high 
and  only  twenty  feet  from  crest  to  crest,  had  the  canoe  standing  on  her 
bow  or  stern  practically  all  the  time.  As  we  entered  the  Bay  of  Bamba  the 
wind  increased.  The  canoe  was  taking  such  a  beating  that  we  could  see 
her  bend,  and  could  occasionally  hear  the  splintering  of  wood.  It  took  two 
hours  to  make  the  half-mile  to  the  beach.  While  landing  in  the  small  but 
powerful  surf,  the  canoe  was  picked  up  by  a  breaker  and  I  was  thrown  off 
the  stern.  This  time,  as  the  canoe  rolled  on  top  of  me,  I  got  a  badly 
wrenched  knee.  The  canoe  had  five  broken  ribs,  splintered  siding,  and  a 
cracked  gunwale. 

The  wind  was  blowing  so  hard  that  it  was  impossible  to  set  up  camp. 
We  pulled  the  canoe  high  on  the  beach,  piled  the  equipment  in  the  lee  of  it, 
arranged  a  canvas  shelter  over  the  cockpit,  and  tried  to  sleep.  The  deafen¬ 
ing  roar  of  the  wind  made  it  difficult.  Sometime  during  the  night  the  canoe 
seemed  to  drop  into  a  pit  where  it  careened  over  on  its  side.  I  was  sure 
that  a  violent  earthquake  had  rocked  us.  An  investigation  showed  that  the 
wind  had  blown  the  sand  out  from  round  the  canoe,  leaving  it  on  a  sort 
of  pedestal;  then  had  blown  the  canoe  off  the  pedestal  and  into  the  hole. 

We  had  to  remain  here  for  six  days.  Part  of  the  time  it  was  impossible 
to  hunt,  and  almost  impossible  to  gather  firewood,  to  build  a  fire,  or  even 
stand  up.  We  nearly  starved.  Game  could  be  found  only  in  the  densest  un¬ 
dergrowth,  where  it  took  shelter  from  the  wind.  The  air  was  filled  with 
particles  of  sand  which  cut  our  faces.  Out  to  sea  we  could  see  large  freight¬ 
ers  fighting  their  way  close  to  shore,  but  the  spray  was  so  heavy  that 
they  were  merely  blurred  outlines. 

Finally  the  norther  blew  itself  out  and  we  set  to  work  repairing  the 
canoe.  One  morning  while  we  were  thus  engaged  we  found  ourselves  sur- 


Minor  Misadventures 


177 


rounded  by  a  band  of  natives.  They  were  of  the  mixed  nomadic  breeds 
found  along  this  section  of  the  coast.  One  of  the  men  had  his  foot  bandaged 
in  a  filthy  rag.  There  were  too  many  of  them  to  fight,  and  as  they  carried 
rifles  it  seemed  expedient  to  deflect  their  purpose,  before  their  intentions 
had  time  to  crystallize.  I  immediately  walked  over,  and  with  a  big  smile, 
gave  the  “familiar  greeting"  to  the  man  with  the  injured  foot,  announcing 
in  the  same  breath  that  I  was  a  doctor.  I  asked  to  see  his  foot,  which  with 
evident  relief  he  unwrapped  at  once  for  my  inspection.  He  had  stepped  on 
a  thorn,  part  of  which  was  still  in  the  nasty,  suppurating  wound.  I  re¬ 
moved  it,  cleansed  and  disinfected  the  wound,  packed  it  with  a  bit  of  clean 
gauze  soaked  in  permanganate,  and  bound  it  with  a  clean  rag.  Then  I  gave 
him  a  dose  of  raw  quinine.  Its  vicious  taste  convinced  him  of  its  efficacy. 
He  stepped  on  his  doctored  foot  gingerly,  and  was  all  smiles.  Ginger  made 
them  coffee,  and  that  sealed  the  bargain.  They  lived  near-by  for  the  two 
days  that  we  remained.  They  not  only  caused  no  trouble  but  were  very 
friendly.  The  injured  man  was  leader  of  the  group,  and  with  his  support 
we  could  doubtless  have  remained  indefinitely.  They  came  down  to  see 
us  off  and  seemed  to  feel  real  regret  at  our  departure. 

From  here  on  we  had  fair  sailing  down  the  coast  to  Salina  Cruz. 


Chapter  Nineteen 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  CORTEZ 

It  was  the  hour  before  dawn,  but  not  even  the  rough  cold  seas  breaking 
over  us  in  the  darkness  could  chill  our  enthusiasm.  We  were  waiting 
impatiently  just  outside  the  breakwater  of  the  outer  harbour  for  the  sun  to 
show  us  Salina  Cruz.  Not  because  we  had  heard  that  it  was  the  greatest 
Mexican  port  on  the  Pacific,  had  it  become  so  important  to  us.  During  our 
flight  from  the  rnalaria-infested  lagoon,  Salina  Cruz  had  spelled  safety. 
Back  in  Puerto  Escondido,  to  our  fever-ridden  minds  it  had  meant  ice, 
clean  white  beds,  milk,  everything  that  civilization  represents  to  sick  and 
frightened  people  away  from  home.  Now  it  meant  American  ships,  Amer¬ 
ican  food,  and  contact  with  our  own  people.  It  would  be,  we  hoped,  some¬ 
thing  like  finding  the  Valkyr ien  at  San  Lucas. 

So  we  waited  impatiently,  while  the  sun  came  over  a  cloud  bank  in  the 
east,  and  the  black  mountains  took  on  the  colours  of  early  morning.  It  was 
still  too  dark  to  distinguish  objects  clearly,  but  we  strained  our  eyes  in  an 
attempt  to  see  the  masts  of  ships  above  the  long  line  of  warehouses  that 
came  slowly  into  view.  As  we  pointed  the  Vagabunda’s  nose  between  the 
two  great  breakwaters,  we  sighed  happily. 

Now  the  port  was  bathed  in  the  brilliant  light  of  a  tropical  sunrise,  but 
we  simply  sat  and  stared — unwilling  to  believe  our  eyes.  Not  a  ship  was 
in  sight.  The  immense  concrete  docks  with  their  long  lines  of  warehouses 
were  crumbling  and  deserted.  Sections  of  their  corrugated  roofs,  ripped 
loose  by  the  destructive  northers,  hung  flapping  in  the  stiff  breeze.  Where 
vessels  had  sailed  between  the  arms  of  the  breakwaters,  angry  seas  now 
pounded  upon  a  sand  bar.  Not  even  the  tiny  Vagabunda  could  enter.  The 
drawbridge  between  the  inner  and  outer  harbours  was  suspended  half  open. 
Behind  it,  the  port  of  Salina  Cruz  lay  dead. 

Reluctantly  we  swung  the  Vagabunda' s  bow  towards  the  rocky  coast 
ahead.  Half  unbelieving,  we  could  hardly  drag  our  eyes  away  from  that 
colossal  ruin.  Even  the  great  steel  beacon  on  the  end  of  the  breakwater 
looked  as  if  it  were  about  to  fall  into  the  sea.  We  asked  each  other  what 
could  have  happened.  Modern  capital  seeks  to  protect  its  own,  and  those 
silent  buildings,  those  giant  cranes  and  docks,  represented  an  investment 
of  millions.  Later  we  learned  the  reasons  for  that  failure. 

The  opening  of  the  Panama  Canal  was  partially  responsible  for  the  death 
of  Salina  Cruz.  We  were  told  that  in  1912  Salina  Cruz  was  considered  the 


179 


The  Country  of  Cortez 

most  difficult  port  in  the  world  through  which  to  clear  ships.  Every  ship 
that  entered  port  was  a  signal  for  a  fight  between  erratic  port  officials  and 
angry  captains,  who  were  fined  by  the  former  on  the  slightest  pretext. 
It  took  a  great  deal  more  money  than  the  amount  necessary  to  pay  for  un¬ 
loading  and  transshipping  cargo,  and  the  usual  port  fees,  to  clear  a  ship 
from  Salina  Cruz.  Parts  of  cargoes  were  lost  or  stolen  while  they  were 
being  shuttled  across  the  Isthmus  by  the  railroad  which  connected  Salina 
Cruz  with  Puerto  Mexico  on  the  east  coast.  In  the  scramble  to  determine 
whose  cargo  should  clear  first,  there  were  more  than  hints  of  intrigue  by 
representatives  of  the  great  maritime  powers.  The  drama  of  graft,  theft, 
and  intrigue  ended  with  the  opening  of  the  Canal.  No,  Salina  Cruz  was 
not  entirely  the  innocent  victim  of  progress. 

We  sighed,  as  cold,  wet,  hungry,  and  a  little  sad,  we  bent  our  heads  to 
the  shower  of  spray  and  sailed  by. 

"Well,  where  do  we  go  from  here?"  asked  Ginger  wearily,  as  she  got 
out  the  Pilot  Guide.  Shielding  it  from  the  spray  with  her  body,  she  turned 
to  a  description  of  the  coast  south  of  Salina  Cruz.  She  read,  "La  Ventosa 
Bay,  to  the  northward  and  eastward  of  the  Point,  is  about  two  miles  wide 
and  but  little  over  one  half-mile  in  extent.  Landing  here  is  difficult  even 
in  the  best  of  weather." 

"Let's  try  La  Ventosa,"  I  said.  "We  ought  to  stop  somewhere  for  re¬ 
pairs  before  we  tackle  the  rest  of  the  Gulf.  If  we  can’t  make  La  Ventosa, 
we’ll  have  to  go  on  to  Champerico,  Guatemala." 

As  we  headed  into  the  teeth  of  the  wind,  we  saw  high  up  on  the  head¬ 
land  that  formed  the  point  a  small,  square  masonry  tower.  According  to 
the  Pilot  Guide ,  it  had  been  built  by  Cortez,  the  first  lighthouse  on  the 
west  coast  of  North  America.  "Well,"  said  Ginger,  as  she  gazed  at  the 
sturdy  stone  tower,  "if  Cortez  could  land  here,  we  can." 

I  laughed,  for  the  idea  of  any  one  duplicating  the  feats  of  the  redoubt¬ 
able  Conquistador  was  funny. 

Beating  our  way  against  the  strong  blasts  of  wind,  we  ran  at  last  into 
the  little  bay  of  La  Ventosa.  Back  from  its  beach  was  a  small  warehouse 
and  a  pier  whose  seaward  end  terminated  in  dry  sand,  for  the  bay  was 
filling  in.  Several  natives  appeared  and  waved  us  to  the  proper  landing 
place. 

Shooting  the  light  surf,  we  were  met  by  a  group  of  bare-to-the-waist, 
smiling  fishermen,  who  helped  us  unload  and  carry  the  canoe  to  the  beach. 
"Where  is  your  Port  Captain?"  I  asked.  "We  wish  to  enter  port." 

"He  will  be  here  shortly,  when  he  has  changed  into  his  uniform,"  one 
of  them  answered. 

Our  group  of  friendly  hosts  increased  by  two's  and  three’s,  while  we 
waited  for  the  Port  Captain.  Without  the  pomposity  so  frequently  as¬ 
sumed  by  his  fellows  in  other  ports,  he  looked  over  our  papers  and  pro¬ 
nounced  them  in  good  order.  He  was  not  the  Port  Captain,  he  said,  as  he 


1 80  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

instructed  us  to  follow  him  to  the  warehouse.  In  the  little  room  which 
served  as  an  office,  he  stepped  to  an  old-fashioned  telephone  which  was 
nailed  to  the  wall,  and  began  to  crank  it  vigorously. 

After  much  cranking  and  hammering  on  the  battered  box,  he  got  his 
number.  ‘'Ah,  mi  Capitan ,"  he  announced,  “a  ship  has  arrived  .  .  .  yes, 
her  papers  are  in  order.  .  .  .  No,  Capitan,  she  cannot  anchor  in  that  loca¬ 
tion.  .  .  .  But  Capitan ,  that  is  impossible.  .  .  ."  He  became  so  excited  and 
talked  so  rapidly  that  we  could  scarcely  follow  his  staccato  Spanish.  We 
heard  him  reiterate  over  and  over,  “Yes,  it  is  a  ship,  but  a  little  ship  .  .  . 
yes,  it  has  all  the  papers,  but  she  cannot  anchor  in  the  bay.  .  .  .  Look, 
Capitan ,"  he  wailed  at  last  in  desperation  as  he  pointed  the  receiver  towards 
the  beach,  “here  it  comes  now  .  .  .  two  men  are  carrying  it  across  the  sand. 
Yes,  it  is  the  Vagabunda.  .  .  .  That  is  right,  the  Senor  and  the  Senora 
Lamb/'  He  hung  up  the  phone  and  beamed  at  us.  “£/  Capitan  del  Puerto 
is  coming  to  meet  you.  Until  then  I  am  at  your  service." 

The  thing  we  wanted  to  do  most  was  to  change  into  our  shore  clothes 
before  greeting  “£/  Capitan ."  Mexicans,  like  other  people,  are  impressed 
by  clothes,  and  it  always  raised  our  social  status  to  be  correctly  attired 
when  meeting  them.  This  was  particularly  true  in  Ginger's  case,  as  they 
were  by  no  means  used  to  young  ladies  in  shorts. 

The  official  offered  us  the  use  of  his  office,  with  apologies  that  there 
was  nothing  better.  We  grabbed  our  shore  clothes  bag,  barred  the  door 
of  the  little  office,  and  pulled  off  our  wet  clothes. 

Ginger's  anguished  wail  filled  the  room,  as  she  surveyed  her  one  and 
only  dress.  We  had  shipped  considerable  water  in  our  battle  with  the 
norther  and  some  of  it  had  found  its  way  through  the  mast  seat  into  the 
cockpit.  Our  good  clothes  had  received  just  enough  of  a  soaking  to  stamp 
the  flowers  from  Ginger's  blue  print  dress  upon  my  white  pants  and  shirt. 
We  finally  laughed  off  our  chagrin  and  donned  the  streaked  garments 
anyway. 

As  we  stepped  out  of  the  little  office,  the  crowd  eyed  us  curiously.  I 
explained  our  plight,  to  the  sound  of  much  laughter.  A  kind-faced  old 
woman  stepped  up  to  Ginger,  and  placing  her  arms  round  her  shoulders, 
said,  “It  is  also  our  custom  to  give  flowers — but  not  to  white  pants.  Come, 
let  us  go  to  my  house  and  we  will  see  what  can  be  done  about  it." 

She  introduced  herself  as  Dona  Facunda,  and  as  we  made  our  way  up  a 
winding  road  to  a  group  of  huts  we  were  met  and  cordially  greeted  by  her 
husband,  Don  Juan. 

Their  house  was  large,  for  in  addition  to  the  main  room  which  was  fifty 
feet  square,  there  were  three  semi-detached  anterooms.  One  was  used  as  a 
kitchen  during  the  rainy  season,  one  as  a  store  room,  and  the  third  as  a 
spare  room.  They  were  built  of  the  same  materials  and  in  the  same  manner 
as  the  other  native  structures  throughout  the  area.  The  roofs  were  well 
thatched  and  wide-eaved  to  shed  the  rain,  and  were  supported  by  poles. 


181 


The  Country  of  Cortez 

The  sides  of  the  hut  were  of  lattice  work.  The  furnishings  were  simple. 
The  main  room  housed  the  altar,  stove,  metate,  olla,  a  handhewn  table 
and  benches,  and  several  hammocks.  The  hard  earthen  floors  were  freshly 
swept  and  everything  looked  clean  and  neat.  We  were  more  than  glad  to 
accept  Dona  Facunda’s  and  Don  Juan’s  invitation  to  stay  with  them  while 
in  La  Ventosa. 

While  Ginger  and  Dona  Facunda  discussed  ways  and  means  of  bleaching 
my  pants,  provided  they  could  be  gotten  off  me  long  enough,  Don  Juan 
and  I  talked  over  the  problem  of  repairing  the  canoe  and  equipment.  He 
suggested  that  we  could  secure  the  use  of  the  warehouse  for  our  operations. 

Our  deliberations  were  interrupted  by  the  rattle  and  bang  of  an  anti¬ 
quated  Ford  truck,  which,  together  with  many  voices,  announced  the  ar¬ 
rival  of  a  large  delegation  from  Salina  Cruz.  The  truck,  loaded  to  capacity 
with  all  the  leading  citizens  and  officials  who  could  crowd  into  it,  had 
bumped  its  way  over  the  three  miles  of  dusty  road  that  separated  the  two 
communities. 

My  decorated  pants  were  again  the  subject  of  much  good-natured  rail¬ 
lery.  The  Port  Captain  later  confessed  that  he  had  prepared  an  impressive 
address  of  welcome,  but  had  become  speechless  at  sight  of  my  pants. 

Neither  Dona  Facunda  nor  Don  Juan  took  any  part  in  the  festivities 
after  the  arrival  of  the  others,  but  busied  themselves  in  preparing  coffee 
for  the  crowd.  Our  host  and  hostess  were  Zapotec  Indians,  the  others, 
Mexicans  of  the  official  and  commercial  classes;  and  there  was  a  distinct 
barrier  between  the  two. 

The  Port  Captain  took  complete  charge  of  the  arrangements.  We  must 
all  go  to  Salina  Cruz,  he  announced.  Our  equipment  had  been  brought  into 
the  spare  room  by  the  fishermen,  and  we  retired  to  select  the  things  that 
we  had  learned  from  past  experience  to  take  with  us.  Since  we  frequently 
made  unplanned  detours  on  the  trip,  we  always  took  along  our  mess  kit, 
tent,  guns,  camera  and  films,  rough  clothes,  machetes,  diaries,  and  cre¬ 
dentials.  The  rest  of  the  equipment  we  carefully  packed  into  the  box  and 
locked. 

Don  Juan  and  I  left  the  party  long  enough  to  go  to  the  warehouse,  where 
we  placed  the  canoe  upon  crosspieces  in  one  corner,  and  stacked  the  pad¬ 
dles,  harpoon,  and  sail  on  deck.  Don  Juan  was  mystified  by  these  extensive 
preparations.  “You  are  going  away  for  a  long  time?”  he  asked. 

“I  don’t  think  so,”  I  replied,  “but  if  we  are  not  back  in  a  few  days,  I 
hope  you  will  take  good  care  of  our  things.” 

“ Sif  Senor he  replied.  “Do  not  worry,  I  will  take  good  care  of  every¬ 
thing.” 

Returning  to  the  hut,  we  found  the  visitors  from  Salina  Cruz  anxious  to 
depart.  They  eyed  very  curiously,  our  packsack  with  its  two  machetes 
strapped  to  the  outside,  but  they  asked  no  questions. 

As  we  rattled  off'  in  the  crowded  truck  towards  Salina  Cruz,  we  gazed 


1 82  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

with  interest  at  the  low,  flat  country  that  had  been  Cortez'  domain.  This 
was  the  State  of  Oaxaca,  which  a  grateful  sovereign  had  given  him  with  the 
title  of  Marquess  of  the  Valley  of  Oaxaca,  and  here  he  had  made  his  home. 
The  landscape  was  dotted  with  odd-looking  trees,  whose  great  trunks  were 
out  of  all  proportion  to  their  height.  They  were  devoid  of  leaves  but  on  the 
tip  of  each  little  branch  was  a  bright  yellow  flower.  Inland  were  the  peaks 
of  the  continental  divide,  and  seaward  the  low,  barren  hills  shut  off  all 
view  of  the  ocean. 

After  three  miles  of  bumping  along  a  flat  dusty  road,  we  came  up  over 
a  little  rise  and  there  below  us  lay  Salina  Cruz.  The  streets,  with  their 
rows  of  great  empty  houses,  were  deserted  except  for  an  occasional  oxcart 
or  a  lone  pedestrian.  In  the  port's  heyday,  the  wide,  well-laid-out  streets 
must  have  been  impressive.  Now  the  wind  had  undermined  the  paving  and 
traffic  was  possible  only  where  the  drifting  sand  covered  the  jagged,  sag¬ 
ging  paving  blocks.  The  once  ornamental  street  lights  had  become  pieces 
of  rusted  iron,  their  foundation  blocks  laid  bare  by  the  destructive  winds. 
We  rattled  past  the  great  railroad  terminal,  where  formerly  twenty  trains 
a  day  had  arrived  from  Puerto  Mexico,  and  an  equal  number  had  left  for 
the  Atlantic  seaport.  We  came  to  a  final  stop  before  the  once  famous 
Guasti  Hotel  where  the  few  inhabitants  of  Salina  Cruz  now  made  their 
headquarters. 

As  we  stepped  inside,  we  were  met  by  a  Chinese  who  ushered  us  into 
the  dining  room.  Here,  gathered  in  our  honour,  were  other  important  resi¬ 
dents  of  Salina  Cruz.  Among  them  were  the  Jefe  de  Aduana  (chief  of  the 
custom  house),  the  Generalissimo  of  the  garrison,  the  manager  of  the 
cable  office,  the  Presidente  Municipal ,  and  others. 

The  meal  that  was  placed  before  us  rivalled  anything  that  we  had 
dreamed  of.  It  consisted  of  soup,  a  salad  of  green  vegetables,  four  meat 
courses  with  vegetables,  broiled  fish,  stuffed  peppers,  and  other  delicious 
dishes.  Let  no  one  be  misled  by  the  tamale  and  chile  con  carne  of  com¬ 
merce  into  thinking  that  they  represent  the  Mexican  cuisine — they  em¬ 
phatically  do  not.  In  addition  to  these  foods,  we  ate  quantities  of  cheese, 
and  drank  milk,  coffee  with  cream,  and  cold  beer.  The  dessert  course  found 
us  stuffed  like  boas  and  unable  even  to  taste  the  papaya  and  other  fruits. 

Immediately  after  dinner  most  of  our  hosts  excused  themselves  for  the 
siesta  hour.  During  the  meal  we  had  become  especially  friendly  with  the 
chief  of  the  cable  office,  who  now  invited  us  to  his  house.  He  had  been 
studying  English,  which  he  spoke  fairly  well,  and  was  glad  of  an  oppor¬ 
tunity  to  use  it.  He  also  politely  suggested  that  it  might  be  well  tor  me 
to  don  a  pair  of  his  pants  while  my  own  were  being  bleached.  This  seemed 
like  a  good  idea,  and  they  were  promptly  dispatched  to  a  washerwoman 
for  treatment,  while  we  enjoyed  a  good  siesta. 

The  evening  brought  with  it  more  food,  which  almost  wrecked  us,  for 
we  were  unaccustomed  to  such  gargantuan  meals.  The  conversation  during 


183 


The  Country  of  Cortez 

the  evening  turned  to  Tehuantepec  and  the  Tehuana  Indians.  We  sat  listen- 
ing  avidly  to  the  glowing  accounts  of  the  beautiful  city  and  its  interesting 
inhabitants.  When  they  urged  us  by  all  means  to  see  it,  we  had  already 
made  up  our  minds  to  go. 

We  had  tried  our  luck  at  gold  mining  in  the  little  creeks  and  rivers  as 
we  came  down  the  coast,  and  had  collected  several  ounces  of  the  metal. 
I  sold  the  gold  that  night,  and  at  four-thirty  the  next  morning  we  were 
sitting  with  Senor  Jiminez,  our  host  and  escort,  in  the  first-class  compart¬ 
ment  of  the  train  bound  for  Tehuantepec. 

The  first-class  compartment,  which  was  placed  at  the  end  of  the  train, 
differed  from  the  second-class  accommodation  only  in  having  wicker-cov¬ 
ered  seats.  Besides  ourselves  and  Senor  Jiminez  there  was  only  one  other 
first-class  passenger.  I  nudged  Ginger,  “Wouldn't  you  like  to  ride  in  front 
with  the  People?"  She  grinned  as  we  made  our  way  to  the  car  ahead.  It, 
too,  was  only  partially  filled,  since  most  of  the  second-class  passengers 
were  still  on  the  station  platform.  We  craned  our  necks  out  of  the  windows 
to  watch  them.  Though  it  was  not  yet  daylight,  and  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  many  of  them  had  journeyed  long  distances  carrying  heavy  burdens, 
they  laughed  and  chattered  together  like  magpies.  Some  of  them  carried 
big  wicker  baskets  full  of  fresh  or  dried  fish  on  their  heads;  others  carried 
huge  bundles  of  tortillas,  corn,  and  garden  produce  to  be  sold  in  Tehu¬ 
antepec;  still  others  carried  live  chickens  tied  by  the  feet.  A  shrill  blast  of 
the  whistle  sent  them  scurrying  to  the  train  where  they  all  tried  to  squeeze 
through  the  doors  at  once,  or  pass  their  chickens  and  bundles  through  the 
windows  to  friends  inside.  They  scrambled  and  fell  over  each  other  in  their 
race  for  seats,  reminding  us  of  a  group  of  school  children  starting  off  on  a 
picnic.  The  train,  without  further  warning,  jerked  and  wheezed  out  of  the 
station. 

Every  seat  was  filled  with  passengers  and  their  huge  hand-woven  bas¬ 
kets.  They  were  all  most  friendly  as  we  walked  through  the  train  exchang¬ 
ing  greetings  with  them.  Every  little  while  the  train  stopped  at  some 
rancherio  where  more  passengers  got  on. 

The  ten-mile  trip  took  two  hours.  The  country  looked  fiat  and  uninter¬ 
esting  from  the  train  windows.  Its  brushy  expanse  was  broken  occasionally 
by  the  cleared  fields  of  some  small  farm.  The  few  way  stations  were  in 
almost  complete  ruin. 

The  Indians  were  sufficiently  interesting,  however,  to  make  the  trip  seem 
anything  but  tedious.  They  were  Zapotecs  and  a  more  picturesque  crowd 
would  be  difficult  to  find.  All  of  the  women  were  dressed  in  long  flowing 
skirts  with  elaborately  ruffled  flounces.  Their  blouses  were  sleeveless,  with 
round  necks  and  three  yellow  stripes  coming  down  over  the  shoulders  and 
forming  a  square  at  the  waist  line.  They  were  good-looking,  pleasant  peo¬ 
ple  and  we  liked  them  at  once. 

Suddenly  a  buzz  of  excitement  ran  through  the  train  and  when,  upon 


1 84  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

inquiry,  we  found  that  we  were  about  to  enter  Tehuantepec,  we  hastened 
back  to  our  compartment.  Our  host  eyed  us  disapprovingly  and  tactfully 
intimated  that  it  was  not  wise  for  first-class  people  to  associate  with  second- 
class  people.  This  little  homily  was  delivered  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger, 
but  it  was  intended  to  let  us  know  precisely  how  upper-class  Mexicans 
felt  about  natives — you  couldn't  be  on  terms  of  social  equality  with  both. 
However,  the  present  President  of  Mexico,  Cardenas,  is  a  Tarascan  Indian, 
and  the  time  will  come  when  the  Indians  will  play  a  more  dominant  role 
in  the  southern  republic. 

The  train  now  moved  slowly  among  the  thickly  massed  thatched  huts 
which  carpeted  the  beautiful  valley,  and  along  the  winding  Tehuantepec 
River.  The  train  stopped,  but  none  of  the  passengers  moved.  This  was  not 
the  city,  we  were  informed,  but  one  of  the  seven  barrios  into  which  the  city 
of  Tehuantepec  is  divided.  The  main  part  of  the  city  lies  across  the  river. 
There  we  were  in  a  different  land.  Everywhere  were  dense  tropical  gar¬ 
dens.  On  both  sides  of  the  track,  hemming  in  the  station,  were  papaya, 
mango,  banana,  coco-nut,  zapote ,  and  many  other  trees.  Crowds  of  gaily 
dressed  natives  awaited  the  train,  laughing,  talking  and  calling  out  greet¬ 
ings  to  the  passengers.  Above  the  din  I  called  to  Ginger,  “This  is  the 
place  we  have  been  looking  for."  She  was  unable  to  hear  me  and  her  face 
was  a  question  mark,  so  I  yelled  louder,  “This  is  the  place.  Look  at  them. 
Everyone  is  smiling,  at  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning,  too." 

Gradually  the  noise  subsided  as  the  people  started  towards  town  in  a 
procession.  Even  our  host  entered  into  the  spirit  of  the  thing  as  he  took 
each  of  us  by  an  arm.  The  three  of  us  fell  in  line  behind  a  plump  Tehuana 
woman.  The  spirit  of  merriment  was  so  contagious  that  we  laughed  and 
joked  as  we  jostled  our  way  into  Tehuantepec. 

Both  Ginger  and  I  were  all  eyes  as  we  made  our  way  down  the  street 
towards  the  market.  It  was  a  scene  of  dazzling  colour.  Well-constructed 
buildings,  painted  in  bright  hues  and  made  of  plaster,  mason  work,  and 
adobe,  with  tile  roofs,  lined  the  streets.  Flowers  filled  every  patio.  In 
every  nook  and  corner  where  a  plant  could  grow,  they  bloomed.  Tehuan¬ 
tepec  should  be  called  “The  City  of  Flowers." 

Now  we  turned  our  attention  to  the  gorgeously  attired  Tehuana  Indian 
women  whom  we  met  in  increasing  numbers.  Their  clothes  had  embroidered 
flower  designs  in  bright  colours,  in  addition  to  the  three  stripes  down  the 
shoulders  and  across  the  waist,  which  seems  to  be  a  tribal  distinction. 
The  Tehuanas  are  a  branch  of  the  great  Zapotecan  tribe  which  dominates 
southern  Mexico.  Immaculate  white  lace  ruffles  edged  their  full  skirts  and 
they  occasionally  wore  the  huipil ,  the  distinctive  white  headdress  of  the 
Tehuana  women.  They  carried  themselves  with  dignity  and  grace.  They 
were  simply  magnificent.  If  they  did  not  wear  the  headdress,  they  had 
bright-coloured  ribbons  entwined  in  their  hair,  and  some  wore  coronets 
of  flowers. 


185 


The  Country  of  Cortez 

The  market  itself  was  a  great  building  without  sides,  its  roof  supported 
by  pillars.  Our  Zapotecan  acquaintances  of  the  train  found  themselves 
places  here  and,  uncovering  their  wares,  set  up  shop. 

We  sauntered  through  a  lane  of  venders  to  an  eating  establishment 
which  occupied  one  of  the  booths.  Here  we  seated  ourselves  at  a  tiny  table, 
while  the  barefoot  proprietress  bustled  round  a  charcoal  stove  made  from 
a  five-gallon  oil  can.  She  soon  brought  our  breakfast  of  fried  eggs,  em¬ 
panadas  de  frijoles  (a  tortilla  folded  over  a  filling  of  beans  and  then  fried), 
and  some  very  black  coffee. 

During  the  meal  we  listened  intently  to  the  people  round  us,  but  we 
seldom  heard  a  familiar  word.  They  used  the  Spanish  names  for  things 
that  had  been  introduced  by  Europeans,  such  as  glass,  table  cloth,  buckets, 
and  similar  objects,  but  otherwise  retained  their  native  speech.  To  our  ears 
it  sounded  much  like  Chinese.  We  picked  up  a  few  words  from  the  old 
lady  who  served  our  breakfast,  such  as  the  Zapotecan  word  for  water, 
nisa  (pronounced  neesah).  The  language  is  not  written  and  one  can  only 
guess  at  the  spelling. 

Very  few  men  were  in  evidence,  and  in  answer  to  our  inquiries  we  were 
told  that  they  were  in  the  fields.  Tehuana  women  are  emancipated  in  the 
good  old  suffragist  meaning  of  the  word.  They  handle  all  the  money,  do 
all  the  buying  and  selling,  and  manage  their  homes  and  persons  to  suit 
themselves.  As  one  of  them  explained,  “Men  do  not  understand  business. 
It  is  better  that  they  produce  the  things  for  us  to  sell." 

After  breakfast  Senor  Jiminez  guided  us  round  town  and  introduced 
us  to  the  various  officials  and  other  people  of  importance.  The  winding 
streets  made  us  walk  long  distances  to  reach  relatively  near-by  places.  The 
twelve  thousand  inhabitants  live  in  seven  barrios ,  or  wards.  These  different 
sections  have  separate  communal  interests,  such  as  fiestas  and  religious 
ceremonies.  This  happy  circumstance  makes  it  possible  for  the  festive 
Tehuanas  to  attend  a  party  every  night  if  they  are  so  inclined,  since  one 
is  almost  certain  to  find  some  sort  of  celebration  going  on  in  one  of  the 
seven  barrios. 

The  summit  of  the  brush-covered  hill  which  rises  almost  from  the  centre 
of  town  is  crowned  by  a  small  chapel.  From  this  vantage  point  the  view 
of  the  surrounding  country  was  superb.  A  brilliant  mosaic  of  flower-filled 
patios,  winding  river,  emerald  fields,  multi-coloured  tile  roofs,  and,  in  the 
far  distance,  mountains  of  misted  pearl  spread  round  and  below  us. 

The  scene  gave  us  a  clearer  perception  of  the  people  who  had  been 
moulded  by  this  environment.  Their  gaily-coloured  garments,  their  bright- 
hued  handicrafts  in  the  market  place,  their  mobile,  laughing  faces  were  but 
a  reflection  of  the  beauty  of  the  river  and  mountain,  the  flowers  and  fields. 
Their  quiet,  unhurried  movements,  their  spontaneous  gaiety,  reflected  the 
languors  of  a  tropic  sun. 

There  were  fresh  flowers  on  the  steps  of  the  little  chapel,  but  it,  as 


186  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

well  as  the  great  cathedral  in  the  centre  of  the  town,  was  closed.  This  was 
true  of  almost  all  the  Catholic  churches  during  our  sojourn  in  Mexico. 
Nominally  Catholic,  the  native  religion  is  a  strange  fusion  of  primitive 
superstition  and  church  dogma.  The  Indians  are  innately  and  incurably  re¬ 
ligious.  The  government’s  contention  that  the  Church’s  moral  leadership 
was  subordinated  to  its  desire  for  political  control  led  to  the  closing  of  the 
churches.  The  reaction  of  the  people  to  this  policy  had  its  parallel  when 
the  United  States  passed  the  eighteenth  amendment.  Deprived  of  their 
churches,  they  built  altars  in  their  homes.  Priests,  ousted  from  their  easy 
living,  either  abandoned  their  vocation  or  became  earnest  propagandists 
for  the  Faith.  No  longer  a  privileged  caste,  they  threw  in  their  lot  with 
the  natives.  This  has  had  a  powerful  effect  upon  the  naturally  religious 
Indian,  who  feels  that  now,  for  the  first  time,  his  church  understands  his 
problems  and  his  needs. 

We  spent  much  time  with  the  Indians  during  our  two  years  in  Mexico, 
and  it  is  our  belief  that  Catholicism  is  stronger  among  them  now  than  at 
any  other  time  since  the  Conquest.  If  it  is  to  last,  however,  it  will  have  to 
retain  most  of  its  present  complexion,  for  the  Indian  will  not  submit  again 
to  the  old  tyranny. 

Senor  Jiminez  took  us  to  the  home  of  one  of  his  Tehuana  friends. 
Big  doors  opened  into  a  high-walled  patio  that  fronted  the  street,  and 
flower-bordered  paths  led  to  the  house.  The  house  was  built  in  an  L,  with 
a  high  wall  surrounding  the  two  open  sides.  The  long,  tile-covered  porch 
was  gaily  decked  with  hammocks.  Inside  the  rooms  were  furnished  with 
wicker  and  leather,  which,  with  a  profusion  of  ferns  and  flowers,  gave  the 
house  an  atmosphere  of  simplicity  and  coolness. 

Our  hostess,  Dona  Lupe,  with  her  two  daughters,  Conchita  and  Maria, 
greeted  us  graciously.  We  were  comfortably  established  in  hammocks  and 
served  a  refresco  of  limeade,  a  delicious  cooling  drink  made  from  the  wild 
lime.  The  wild,  tree-ripened  lime  has  a  flavour  and  an  aroma  not  found 
in  the  green-picked  limes  which  are  shipped  to  the  United  States. 

Luncheon  consisted  of  green  salad,  cheese,  and  enchiladas  made  with 
the  soft  white  native  cheese.  As  we  sat  and  talked  at  the  luncheon  table  we 
felt  that  we  were  having  a  rare  and  barely  hoped  for  opportunity  to  become 
acquainted  with  these  people  and  their  way  of  living. 

Maria,  who  had  been  looking  at  my  pants  quite  steadily  for  some  time, 
could  no  longer  control  her  laughter.  “But  I  can't  help  it,’’  she  laughed, 
“each  of  them  is  so  reminiscent  of  the  other.’’  The  laundress  at  Salina 
Cruz  had  laboured  in  vain,  for  the  blue  flowers  were  still  apparent.  Ginger’s 
dress  had  not  fared  too  well  in  the  exchange  either.  We  knew  we  must 
look  ridiculous,  and  laughed  with  the  rest. 

Later  in  the  afternoon  the  women  took  Ginger,  and,  with  much  giggling, 
closed  the  door  of  the  bedroom  behind  them. 

Our  host,  who  had  returned  from  the  city,  escorted  me  to  a  secluded 


187 


The  Country  of  Cortex 

place  and  produced  a  pair  of  local  trousers  which  looked  like  white  pyjama 
pants.  I  put  them  on,  and  with  a  broad  blue  sash  round  my  waist  felt  much 
more  comfortable  than  I  had.  My  original  pants  were  sent  to  the  washer¬ 
woman  with  instructions  that  they  were  to  be  bleached. 

As  I  sat  talking  with  the  men,  a  young  woman  dressed  in  native  cos¬ 
tume  entered  the  room — a  friend  of  the  house,  I  assumed,  after  glancing 
at  her  casually.  Then  she  grinned,  and  I  looked  at  her  again.  It  was  Ginger 
arrayed  in  full  Tehuana  costume,  which  she  wore  as  though  to  the  manner 
born.  The  full  blue  skirt  was  heavily  embroidered  with  flowers,  and  the 
starched  white  lace  ruffle,  about  eight  inches  wide,  just  cleared  the  ground 
when  she  walked.  From  beneath  it  one  had  a  glimpse  of  bare  brown  feet. 
Her  round-necked  red  blouse  was  embroidered  both  front  and  back,  and 
had  the  three  yellow  stripes  across  the  shoulders  and  the  waist.  Round 
her  head  was  a  bright  scarf,  and  a  flower  was  tucked  over  her  ear.  Dona 
Lupe  regretfully  explained  that  she  could  not  lend  her  the  huipil ,  the 
distinctive  white  headdress,  since  this  was  a  religious  symbol,  the  right 
to  wear  it  passing  from  mother  to  daughter,  and  not  extending  to  outsiders. 
The  huipil  symbolizes  the  dress  of  the  Sacred  Christ  Child,  the  Senora  told 
us.  And  it  actually  is  a  dress.  The  full,  pleated  skirt  forms  a  frame  for  the 
face,  while  the  rest  of  the  garment  is  draped  over  the  back  of  the  head. 

Ginger  looked  very  natural  and  at  ease  as  she  laughed  and  talked  with 
the  other  women.  Though  our  hair  and  eyes  were  lighter,  our  skins  were 
as  brown  as  theirs.  Our  knowledge  of  the  country,  the  idiomatic  Spanish 
that  we  used,  and  the  insight  we  had  gained  into  the  psychology  of  native 
peoples  all  helped  us  to  fit  ourselves  into  the  life  at  Tehuantepec. 

Maria  and  Conchita,  anxious  to  exhibit  their  new  '‘Tehuana"  friend 
among  their  old  acquaintances,  insisted  that  we  go  for  a  walk  with  them. 
We  started,  the  girls  and  Ginger  ahead,  the  men  following.  With  elaborate 
ceremonies,  Ginger  w'as  introduced  to  each  friend  that  they  met.  Once 
they  stopped,  and  with  much  laughter  transferred  Ginger's  flowrer  from 
above  the  right  ear  to  the  left,  where  theirs  were  worn.  This  puzzled  me, 
but  Ginger  explained  later  that  they  were  palming  her  off' as  an  unmarried 
woman.  A  flower  worn  over  the  left  ear  indicates  that  the  girl  is  unmarried; 
if  worn  on  the  right,  married. 

We  strolled  round  the  plaza  and  along  tree-shaded  streets  until  it  was 
time  to  return  to  the  house,  where  Dona  Lupe  had  the  evening  meal  wait¬ 
ing:  hot  pan  dulce,  a  sweet  bread  similar  to  coffee  cake;  tortillas  toasted 
with  a  relish-spread,  cheese,  hot  coffee,  and  fresh  pineapple.  Afterwards 
everyone  congregated  on  the  porch,  where  they  lounged  in  hammocks  and 
laughed  and  gossiped  in  the  musical  clipped  Spanish  of  the  Tehuanas. 

We  talked  of  the  towrn,  and  how  happy  everyone  seemed  to  be.  They 
were  by  far  the  happiest  people  we  had  seen  in  Mexico.  Dona  Lupe  smiled 
as  she  said,  "How  could  we  be  otherwise?  We  live  surrounded  by  flowers." 
It  was  not  entirely  that,  we  knew;  but  it  was  the  combination  of  a  people 


188  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

with  a  flair  for  gracious  living,  and  an  environment  that  matched  their 
needs. 

Then  they  began  to  question  us  about  our  trip.  We  told  them  of  our 
many  adventures  and  of  our  desire  to  explore  the  unknown  sections  of 
Mexico  and  Central  America.  At  that  our  host  said  something  that  made 
us  sit  up  like  bird  dogs  on  the  scent. 

"Have  you  ever  heard,"  he  asked,  "of  the  mountainous  territory  to  the 
south  of  the  Isthmus  of  Tehuantepec,  which  some  of  our  people  call  the 
‘Forbidden  Land'?"  When  we  disclaimed  knowledge  of  it  he  continued,  "It 
is  said  that  all  those  who  enter  it  meet  death.  We  do  not  know  if  this  is  true, 
but  strange  things  certainly  do  happen  to  those  people  who  attempt  to 
penetrate  this  area.  There  is  a  man  in  Tehuantepec  lying  on  his  deathbed 
now,  who  only  last  week  entered  this  country  in  search  of  lost  cattle." 

"What  happened  to  him?  Why  is  he  dying?"  I  asked. 

"Nothing  really  happened,  Sehor,  in  the  ordinary  sense.  Nevertheless, 
the  man  is  dying.  You  see,  one  of  the  beliefs  concerning  this  place  is  that 
it  is  a  Spirit  Land,  where  the  soul  goes  after  death.  Many  people  also  believe 
that  at  the  time  of  approaching  death,  the  spirit  of  a  dead  friend  or  relative 
appears  before  the  person  who  is  about  to  die.  The  old  spirit  comes  to  act 
as  guide  and  counsellor  to  the  new  spirit  starting  upon  its  unfamiliar 
journey  to  the  land  beyond  life.  This  is  the  belief  of  the  man  who  is  now 
dying.  He  is  sure  that  as  he  entered  this  country  to  search  for  his  cattle, 
he  was  met  by  the  spirit  of  a  long  dead  friend.  They  talked  together  for 
a  while,  then  his  friend  disappeared.  This  visitation  was  a  summons,  so  he 
came  back  home  and  prepared  himself  for  death." 

"Would  it  be  possible,"  I  asked,  "for  us  to  visit  this  dying  man?" 

"Why,  yes,  we  know  the  family  very  well,"  he  answered.  "Tomorrow 
we  will  go  to  see  him." 

This  story  so  stirred  our  curiosity  that  we  asked  many  questions  about 
this  "Forbidden  Land."  We  were  told  other  superstitions  concerning  it, 
and  given  some  of  the  reasons  why  Indians  of  their  own  accord  do  not 
penetrate  the  high,  mountainous  plateaus  of  Mexico  and  Central  America. 
The  primary  reason  is  that  the  land  is  of  no  use  to  them.  An  agricultural 
people,  they  are  only  interested  in  land  of  sufficient  fertility  and  with 
sufficient  water  to  grow  crops.  Having  established  themselves  in  country 
suited  to  their  purpose,  they  see  no  reason  for  leaving  it  and  seldom  do  so. 
The  only  natives  who  will  go  into  the  back  country  are  the  hardy  chicleros , 
the  native  chicle  hunters,  in  search  of  the  chicozapote  or  sapodilla  tree,  from 
whose  sap  chewing  gum  is  made.  Used  to  the  hardships  and  hazards  of 
their  difficult  occupation,  the  chicleros  nevertheless  refuse  to  enter  the  For¬ 
bidden  Land,  although  they  travel  for  long  distances  into  other  sections 
of  the  back  country  equally  difficult  to  penetrate.  They,  too,  believe  that 
jt  is  menaced. 


The  Country  of  Cortez 


189 


Were  there  any  evidences,  other  than  native  superstitions,  to  support 
the  belief  that  this  was  a  dangerous  and  difficult  land  to  enter,  we  asked. 

“Yes,"  replied  our  host,  “there  are."  He  then  told  us  the  story  of  a 
Mexican  army  that  sometime  after  the  Revolution  of  1910,  under  the 
leadership  of  Feliz  Diaz,  revolted  in  Vera  Cruz  and  was  forced  to  retreat 
from  the  town  of  Matias  Romero  (formerly  Rincon  Antonio),  which  is 
located  on  the  railroad  about  a  third  of  the  way  across  the  Isthmus  of 
Tehuantepec.  Diaz,*  leading  an  army  of  several  thousand  men,  attempted 
to  cross  the  “forbidden"  area  and  reach  the  State  of  Chiapas  to  the  south 
of  it,  where  he  hoped  to  contact  the  railroad  which  runs  between  San 
Jeronimo  on  the  Isthmus  and  Guatemala  City.  This  would  have  enabled 
him  either  to  combine  his  troops  with  other  units  of  the  revolting  army  in 
Chiapas,  or  escape  to  Guatemala  if  the  Government  troops  were  victorious 
there  as  in  Oaxaca.  What  happened  to  the  army  was  a  mystery,  but  it  was 
known  that  it  did  enter  the  territory  after  leaving  Matias  Romero.  Only 
three  survivors,  Diaz  and  two  of  his  aides,  were  ever  seen  again.  Some 
months  later  they  appeared  at  the  little  town  of  Niltepec,  about  forty  miles 
south  of  Tehuantepec.  Sick,  delirious,  and  half-crazed  from  their  expe¬ 
riences,  they  were  never  able  to  give  a  coherent  account  of  what  had  taken 
place. 

“What  do  you  think  could  have  happened?"  I  asked  our  informant.  “Are 
there  sufficient  numbers  of  warlike  Indians  living  in  this  country  to  anni¬ 
hilate  a  modern  army?  If  an  epidemic  had  broken  out  among  them,  surely 
some  of  those  men,  unless  the  entire  army  was  ambushed,  could  have  safely 
reached  some  of  the  little  towns  along  the  railroad." 

“There  are  no  Indians  living  there,  Senor,"  he  answered.  “And  for  your 
other  questions,  I  do  not  know."  His  shrug  was  more  expressive  than  any 
words. 

I  turned  to  Ginger  and  said  in  English,  “It  looks  as  though  it  might  be  a 
long  time  before  we  get  back  to  Salina  Cruz.  Just  how  will  we  break  the 
news  to  Senor  Jiminez?" 

“Oh,  he  won’t  mind,"  said  Ginger.  “Let’s  follow  Diaz’  trail  and  see 
what  happened  to  that  army." 

When  we  announced  our  purpose  to  the  people  round  us,  the  air  became 
blue  with  protests.  “But,  my  good  friends,  that  is  impossible.  You  will  die. 
No  one  has  ever  entered  that  country  and  lived.  You  must  not  think  of 
such  a  thing." 

Our  friend  from  Salina  Cruz,  Senor  Jiminez,  also  attempted  to  dissuade 
us.  “Surely  you  have  seen  enough.  Why  not  settle  in  Tehuantepec  for 
a  while?  There  is  plenty  of  land,  and  you  can  live  in  peace  and  happiness. 

*  Gruening’s  Mexico  and  Its  Heritage  states  that  General  Diaz  led  a  revolt,  but  that  he  was 
captured  and  taken  to  Mexico  City.  In  all  probability  this  “Diaz  army”  was  a  part  of  the 
revolting  troops,  but  under  different  leadership,  and  in  the  passage  of  time  the  natives  became 
confused  as  to  who  the  leader  actually  was.  Also,  Diaz  is  a  common  name,  and  might  have 
been  the  commander’s  name  as  well  as  the  General’s. 


1 90  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

Travelling  as  you  do  is  both  dangerous  and  full  of  hardships.  Certainly 
there  can  be  no  pleasure  in  that/' 

We  tried  to  explain  to  them  why  we  liked  to  do  adventurous  things, 
how  we  hoped  to  spend  our  lives  in  exploring  unknown  places.  But  it  was 
little  use.  We  had  been  none  too  successful  in  explaining  to  our  own  people 
in  a  language  with  which  we  were  familiar.  Certainly  our  Spanish  was  woe¬ 
fully  inadequate  to  the  task.  We  gave  up. 

Bedtime  having  arrived,  canvas  cots  were  placed  near  the  windows  in 
the  various  rooms.  It  would  be  impossible  to  sleep  on  mattresses  in  this 
country,  because  it  is  necessary  to  have  the  air  circulate  freely  round  one's 
body  in  order  to  keep  cool.  A  mattress  would  soon  become  a  wet,  soggy 
mass.  Only  hammocks  or  cots  are  practical. 

The  next  morning,  dressed  in  native  costume,  we  started  out  to  see  more 
of  the  town.  In  the  market  place  we  noticed  a  number  of  American  tourists 
who  had  arrived  on  the  preceding  night’s  train  from  the  east  coast.  One  of 
the  women  looked  at  Ginger*  and  said  to  her  companion,  “Don't  you  feel 
sorry  for  these  barefoot  women?  What  poverty-stricken  lives  they  must 
lead,  not  to  be  able  to  afford  a  pair  of  shoes!" 

The  women  were  dressed  in  what  we  assumed  was  the  height  of  fashion 
at  home.  Their  high-crowned,  brimless  hats,  worn  high  on  their  heads, 
looked  like  dunce  caps.  They  were  girdled  and  brassiered  within  an  inch 
of  their  lives.  High-heeled  shoes  made  them  teeter  unsteadily  on  the  uneven 
ground.  Hot  and  uncomfortable,  their  make-up  streaked  and  runny,  they 
consoled  themselves  by  feeling  sorry  for  the  natives.  It  tickled  our  sense 
of  humour  to  walk  beside  them,  undistinguishable  from  the  natives,  and 
listen  to  their  comments.  Things  were  either  “terribly  picturesque"  or 
they  were  simply  not  up  to  home  standards.  There  was  no  comprehension 
of  the  differences  the  tropics  impose  upon  a  people's  way  of  life,  no  appre¬ 
ciation  of  a  culture  alien  to  their  own.  We  were  alternately  amused  and 
indignant.  The  majestic,  free-moving  Tehuana  women  watched  them 
through  veiled,  enigmatic  eyes. 

There  was  an  American  in  Tehuantepec,  however,  whom  we  were  most 
anxious  to  meet,  a  man  who  had  made  his  home  here  for  twenty  years, 
and  had  successfully  managed  one  of  the  largest  ranches  on  the  Isthmus. 
We  found  him  in  his  lovely  patio,  contentedly  swinging  in  a  hammock. 
His  bright  blue  eyes  twinkled  as  he  got  up  to  meet  us.  A  man  past  middle 
age,  life  had  dealt  gently  with  him.  He  had  come  to  the  Isthmus  many 
years  before  to  spend  his  vacation — he  had  never  returned  to  the  United 
States.  Retired  now  from  active  business,  he  lived  in  his  fine,  spacious 
home  among  the  flowers,  with  his  beautiful  Tehuana  wife  and  daughters. 

He  ordered  hammocks  swung  for  us,  and  served  us  cool  drinks  made 
from  papaya,  while  he  graciously  answered  some  of  our  many  questions 

*  Ginger  was  wearing  three  gold  necklaces  and  two  arm  bands,  lent  to  her  by  the  girls, 
made  from  United  States  $20.00  gold  pieces — worth  about  $800. 


191 


The  Country  of  Cortez 

regarding  the  Isthmus  and  the  territory  to  the  south  of  it.  While  he  knew 
nothing  at  first  hand  of  the  territory,  since  all  of  his  activities  had  been 
confined  to  the  Isthmus  itself,  he  confirmed  the  fact  that  natives  never 
penetrate  any  difficult  region  unless  they  have  good  reason  to  do  so.  He  had 
never  heard  of  a  “Forbidden  Land,”  but  knew  of  large  unexplored  areas 
to  the  south,  particularly  in  the  State  of  Chiapas. 

Leaving  the  cool  retreat  of  his  patio,  we  went  to  call  upon  the  man  who 
was  dying.  Our  host  led  us  to  a  distant  part  of  the  town,  west  of  the  large 
hill  rising  from  the  centre  of  the  city.  In  this  barrio  the  streets  were  narrow 
and  lined  with  thatched  huts.  It  had  its  own  plaza,  church,  mercado ,  and 
stores.  On  its  outskirts  we  stopped  at  a  well-constructed  hut.  A  sad-faced 
old  woman  invited  us  to  enter. 

On  one  side  of  the  hut  was  an  altar  on  which  tall  candles  burnt.  On  the 
other  side  was  a  cot  with  candles  burning  at  its  foot.  A  young  man  lay 
rhere,  and  though  his  face  gave  no  evidence  of  sickness,  his  withdrawn 
eyes  were  looking  on  death.  His  mother  quietly  said  that  preparations  were 
Deing  made  for  his  funeral. 

I  seated  myself  by  his  bedside  and  took  his  pulse  and  temperature, 
which  were  normal.  There  was  apparently  nothing  organically  wrong  with 
him.  He  told  us,  in  a  matter-of-fact  voice,  about  the  visitation  of  his  dead 
friend.  It  seemed  incredible  to  us  that  a  man  who  was  otherwise  in  perfect 
health  could  will  himself  to  die  because  of  a  superstitious  belief.  I  attempted 
to  point  out  the  absurdity  to  him,  but  my  efforts  were  useless.  He  shook 
nis  head  and  smiled.  What  could  I  know,  his  smile  seemed  to  say,  about 
such  matters?  I  wondered.  Nothing,  perhaps.  It  may  be  that  the  soul 
always  determines  when  it  is  ready  to  free  itself  from  its  fleshy  envelope. 
Our  belief  in  the  causal  relationships  between  life  and  death  may  not  be  a 
briori  to  the  facts. 

j 

As  we  took  our  leave  of  the  sad  household  he  smiled  again  and  thanked 
us  for  coming.  Out  in  the  bright  sunlight,  the  thing  we  had  witnessed  be¬ 
came  even  less  comprehensible.  Nothing  in  our  racial  consciousness  could 
aid  us  in  understanding  this  passive  acceptance  of  man's  greatest  fear — 
death. 

The  funeral  was  held  at  three  o’clock*  the  following  day.  The  man  who 
was  about  to  die  witnessed  the  first  half  of  his  own  funeral,  but  died  before 
the  ceremonies  were  concluded  at  four-thirty. 

It  had  been  our  original  intention  to  return  to  Salina  Cruz  after  spending 
a  day  or  two  in  Tehuantepec.  But  after  hearing  more  stories  about  the 
country  to  the  south  of  us,  we  went  instead  to  Matias  Romero.  Here  we 
met  an  American  mining  man  who  knew  a  great  deal  about  the  Forbidden 
Land.  He  was  preparing  to  go  on  a  prospecting  trip  into  the  interior  and 
invited  us  to  go  along.  Nothing  would  have  suited  us  better,  but  there 
were  certain  difficulties.  We  were  without  passports  or  tourist  cards.  Our 

*  Three  o’clock  was  the  hour  he  had  predicted  as  the  time  of  his  own  death. 


192  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

ship's  papers  allowed  us  the  freedom  of  the  ports,  but  did  not  permit  us  to 
visit  inland  cities.  This  was  already  worrying  the  chief  of  customs  in 
Salina  Cruz,  who  had  allowed  us  to  go  to  Tehuantepec.  When  we  failed 
to  return  as  we  had  promised,  he  sent  orders  for  us  to  come  to  Salina 
Cruz  at  once  or  he  would  lose  his  job  and  we  would  be  arrested.  Back  in 
Salina  Cruz,  there  was  no  way  of  obtaining  tourist  cards  unless  we  went 
to  Puerto  Angel,  as  the  port  was  closed.  This  meant  battling  the  northers 
if  we  went  by  canoe,  or  riding  muleback  overland.  We  chose  the  latter. 
Two  weeks  later  we  were  back  in  Salina  Cruz  sadder  and  wiser  about 
mules,  but  the  proud  possessors  of  tourist  cards,  which  permitted  us  to 
go  into  the  interior  and  remain  for  six  months. 

Returning  to  Matias  Romero,  we  assisted  our  American  mining  ac¬ 
quaintance  to  assemble  his  outfit,  then  started  off  one  night  while  the 
town  lay  in  darkness,  so  that  no  one  would  know  we  had  gone  until  it  was 
too  late  to  follow  us.  This  prospecting  trip  was  not  successful,  however, 
and  we  were  soon  back  in  Matias  Romero,  footloose  and  on  our  own. 

The  wisest  thing  to  do,  we  decided,  was  to  make  a  preliminary  trip 
round  the  borders  of  the  Forbidden  Land.  In  this  way  we  could  pick  up 
valuable  information  from  the  natives,  study  the  country  and  its  special 
problems,  and  gain  some  idea  of  its  extent. 

With  small  packs  on  our  backs  holding  our  best  clothes,  the  camera  and 
films,  guns,  notebooks,  and  so  on,  we  started  one  morning  for  Guigoaxo. 
A  cart  road  led  us  through  a  beautiful  well-wooded  country  and  past  many 
small  fields  where  the  rancheros  were  busily  preparing  the  land  tor  the  corn 
which  was  to  be  planted'as  soon  as  the  rains  started.  Almost  the  only  tool 
we  saw  in  use  was  the  machete,  which  serves  every  purpose  from  plough 
to  paring  knife. 

On  the  road  we  met  groups  of  natives  bound  for  the  railroad  towns. 
Some  of  them  carried  heavy  burdens  on  their  heads,  others  drove  small 
burros  loaded  with  produce.  Each  group  would  stop,  ask  after  our  health 
and  where  we  were  going,  smile  and  pass  on.  We  replied  to  each  individual 
greeting  with  the  customary  buenos  dias.  This  is  the  custom  of  the  country 
and  no  one  is  ever  so  hurried  that  he  omits  it. 

When  late  in  the  afternoon  we  arrived  at  the  little  village  of  Guigoaxo, 
we  were  immediately  made  welcome.  Most  of  these  villages,  we  learned, 
have  a  thatched  hut  which  is  maintained  as  a  guest  house.  There  is  also  a 
small  kitchen  set  up  under  a  thatched  roof  and  ready  for  the  use  of  travellers. 
When  not  occupied  by  travellers  the  guest  house  serves  as  a  meeting  place 
for  the  village  elders. 

We  were  pleasantly  surprised  at  the  extreme  hospitality  of  these  people, 
for  within  a  few  minutes  after  our  arrival  we  were  tendered  several  invita¬ 
tions  to  supper.  In  reply  to  our  questions  about  the  territory,  however, 
our  hosts  had  little  to  say.  It  was  a  bad  country — no  one  ever  went  there. 

The  following  morning  we  took  the  trail  to  the  next  village,  Los  Flores, 


193 


The  Country  of  Cortez 

and  found  ourselves  in  the  territory  of  the  Guichicovis,  a  people  similar 
in  appearance  to  the  Tehuanas,  although  they  dress  differently.  The 
women  wear  wrap-around  skirts  of  a  striped  material  and  a  very  short 
jacket-like  blouse  which  exposes  several  inches  of  bare  skin  above  the 
waist  line.  Their  skin  is  darker  than  that  of  the  Zapotecs,  but  they  have 
the  same  fine  features.  Many  of  those  we  saw,  especially  the  women,  were 
disfigured  by  peculiar  purple  blotches  on  the  surface  of  the  skin  which 
looked  like  birth  marks. 

Temperamentally  the  Guichicovis  lack  the  spontaneity  and  good  humour 
of  the  Tehuanas,  also  their  industriousness.  They  are  more  superstitious 
and  the  stories  they  told  us  of  the  Forbidden  Land  were  full  of  fabulous 
beasts.  In  this  country,  they  said,  were  great  mosquitoes  whose  bite  caused 
blindness,  winged  monsters  that  drained  the  blood  from  your  body,  feath¬ 
ered  serpents  that  flew  among  the  trees.  There  were  animals  with  tusks 
that  would  attack  in  herds,  and  a  huge  beast  called  the  anteburro.  Strange 
things,  too,  floated  down  the  Coatzacoalcos  River.  And  in  all  it  was  a  land 
of  fearsome  wonders. 

We  left  the  village  next  day,  disappointed  that  we  had  gained  so  little 
definite  information,  and  travelled  on  to  Mogone,  whose  inhabitants,  also 
Guichicovis,  differed  little  from  the  people  of  Los  Flores. 

Maps  are  almost  worthless  as  aids  to  travelling  in  this  part  of  Mexico. 
Towns  called  by  a  Spanish  name  on  the  map  retain  their  pre-Conquest 
names  among  the  natives.  Most  of  the  smaller  villages  throughout  the 
State  of  Oaxaca  have  two  names.  When,  worn  out  from  a  long  day's  hike, 
you  arrive  at  the  place  you  have  marked  on  the  map,  it  often  turns  out  to  be 
a  figment  of  the  mapmaker's  imagination,  or  the  fork  in  a  stream,  or  the 
site  of  some  ancient  hacienda.  It  is  seldom  the  village  you  hoped  to  find. 

We  travelled  for  several  weeks  along  the  northern  boundary  of  this  area 
as  we  made  our  way  across  the  Isthmus.  Sometimes  we  were  able  to  go 
for  short  distances  by  muleback  or  oxcart;  but  mainly  we  travelled  afoot, 
our  course  paralleling  the  railroad  until  we  reached  Puerto  Mexico,  the 
Atlantic  terminus  of  the  Trans-Isthmian  railway.  This  port,  unlike  Salina 
Cruz,  is  still  very  active,  since  it  is  the  only  shipping  point  for  the  entire 
Isthmus  of  Tehuantepec. 

Fresh  from  the  back  country  with  its  friendly  manners,  we  would  oc¬ 
casionally  call  out  a  greeting  as  we  sauntered  down  the  streets  of  Puerto 
Mexico  dressed  in  our  best  clothes.  But  instead  of  the  answering  smile 
and  buenos  dias  of  the  countryside,  the  passer-by  would  turn  and  stare  at 
us.  It  did  make  us  feel  lonesome. 

In  search  of  further  information,  we  called  upon  one  of  the  geologists  for 
the  Aguila  Oil  Company,  an  old-time  resident  of  the  tropics.  But  he  knew 
nothing  about  any  so-called  Forbidden  Land.  His  manner  was  gruff  and 
it  was  evident  that  he  thought  us  the  moonstruck  victims  of  romantic 
nonsense.  It  was  also  evident  that  he  had  no  intention  of  being  a  party 


194 


Enchanted  Vagabonds 

to  any  ill-conceived  scheme.  Hoping  that  he  might  take  us  more  seriously, 
we  told  him  something  of  our  trip  down  the  coast.  The  recital  made  him 
a  little  less  contemptuous,  but  no  more  inclined  to  be  helpful  than  before. 
Finally  I  said,  “We're  sorry  you  can’t  give  us  any  information,  for  we  are 
really  serious  about  entering  this  area,  and  we  had  hoped  that  you  might 
have  something  of  value  to  tell  us  before  we  started  in.” 

“Forget  it!”  he  replied.  “That’s  a  bad  country,  and  it’s  certainly  no 
place  to  take  a  young  woman.  Why,  I’ve  sent  seasoned  geologists  in  there 
to  look  for  oil,  and  in  every  case  they’ve  gotten  themselves  into  some  kind 
of  trouble.  And  you  can  bet  my  old-timers  weren’t  stopped  by  any  banshees 
either.  No  one,  so  far  as  I  know,  has  ever  been  into  the  interior.  Moun¬ 
tains,  jungles,  rivers,  and  bugs  stop  ’em — the  country’s  impassable.  Parties 
of  archaeologists  have  been  down  there  too,  attempting  to  get  in.  They’ve 
had  no  luck,  and  if  they  can’t,  don’t  you  think  it  is  foolish  for  you  to  try  it? 
No  one  really  knows  anything  about  the  country.  Of  course  we  hear 
stories  from  time  to  time  of  its  being  a  "forbidden  land’  or  other  bunk  of  a 
similar  nature.  One  of  the  stories  is  that  on  some  high  plateau — no  one 
knows  just  where — a  remnant  of  the  ancient  Mayan  civilization  still  exists. 
People  are  supposed  to  have  retreated  during  the  Conquest  from  Y ucatan, 
and  to  have  established  a  city  in  some  inaccessible  place.  Their  descendants 
are  reputed  to  kill  any  one  who  approaches.  It  is  highly  improbable,  but  I 
don’t  know.  I  do  know,  however,  that  enough  people  who  have  tried  to  go 
into  that  country  have  never  come  back,  to  make  anything  possible.’’ 

“Well,  have  you  any  idea  of  the  extent  of  this  unknown  territory?’’  I 
asked. 

“No,  I  haven’t.  I  do  know  that  the  northeastern  section  of  Oaxaca,  part 
of  the  states  of  Chiapas,  Tabasco,  and  Campeche  have  never  been  explored. 
Apparently  it’s  all  high  mountain  country,  and  practically  impassable.  So 
you’d  better  just  forget  it  and  think  up  something  else  to  do.’’ 

After  we  had  left  him,  Ginger  grinned.  “Our  looks  are  against  us.” 
Certainly  our  appearance  was  not  impressive.  Our  clothes  had  seemed 
good  enough  in  the  villages,  but  contrasted  with  the  smart,  well-dressed 
people  round  us,  we  must  have  cut  pretty  sad-looking  figures. 

Walking  down  the  main  street  we  looked  in  the  store  windows  at  all  the 
things  we  had  done  without  for  so  long.  Smart  light  clothes  suitable  for  the 
tropics;  powders,  creams,  shaving  lotions,  dozens  of  little  personal  com¬ 
forts;  shining  tins  of  canned  milk,  peaches,  cigarettes,  and  other  things 
for  which  there  had  been  no  satisfactory  substitutes.  The  displays  of  good 
food  made  us  hungry  so  we  decided  to  eat  in  one  of  the  small  restaurants. 
The  price  of  the  meal,  however — a  peso  apiece — sent  us  almost  running 
from  the  place.  We  could  live  for  a  week  on  a  peso — and  we  hadn’t  many 
of  them.  The  price  of  a  room  for  the  night,  we  were  told  upon  inquiry,  was 
three  pesos.  This  decided  us.  Puerto  Mexico  was  no  place  for  us. 

Back  in  the  station  master’s  little  house  where  we  had  left  our  packs,  we 


195 


The  Country  of  Cortez 

changed  into  our  hiking  clothes.  Then,  still  undecided  as  to  what  course 
to  follow,  we  walked  over  to  the  docks  and  sat  down  to  watch  the  small 
boats  plying  about  the  bay.  We  were  both  confused  and  depressed  by  the 
noise  and  alien  atmosphere.  Ginger  began  to  fidget.  "Let's  get  going. 
We'd  better  get  out  of  town  before  dark,"  she  urged. 

Along  the  docks  we  stopped  to  talk  with  some  natives  who  were  working 
beside  their  cargo  canoes.  They  seemed  to  be  friendly  fellows  from  up- 
country,  along  the  Coatzacoalcos  River,  and  were  preparing  to  make  their 
way  back  home  after  having  brought  down  a  load  of  fruit  and  coco-nuts. 
They  were  full  of  stories  about  the  river  and  the  surrounding  country.  In 
their  village,  they  said,  there  was  a  man  who  had  made  a  trip  into  the  back 
country  and  knew  all  about  it.  We  should  most  certainly  talk  to  this  man. 
Almost  before  we  knew  it  we  had  agreed  to  go  with  them. 

"If  you  had  told  me  half  an  hour  ago,"  said  Ginger  as  we  pushed  off 
from  the  bank,  "that  within  the  hour  we  would  be  sitting  in  a  canoe  headed 
up  the  Coatzacoalcos  River,  I'd  have  stated  definitely  that  you  were  crazy." 

Our  companions  were  six  river  Indians,  and  differed  noticeably  in  their 
physical  structure  from  the  other  Indians  we  had  met.  Through  centuries 
of  paddling  their  heavy  dugouts  along  tropical  rivers,  and  never  walking 
if  they  can  help  it,  river  Indians  have  developed  enormous  shoulders  and 
arms  which  are  out  of  all  proportion  to  their  slender  hips  and  spindly  legs. 
They  are  by  no  means  beautiful  otherwise.  Their  straight  black  hair  grows 
from  the  crown  of  their  heads  in  all  directions  like  a  Chinese  coolie's  hat; 
their  small  black  eyes  seem  to  be  always  squinting;  their  noses  are  sharp 
and  their  mouths  thin-lipped. 

The  rancher  at  whose  home  we  stopped  for  the  night  would  not  hear  of 
our  preparing  our  own  supper,  but  insisted  that  we  have  our  meal  with 
him.  It  was  a  good  meal  too:  chicken  mole ,  fried  rice,  and  tortillas. 

We  slept  in  one  of  the  dugouts.  There  were  three  of  them,  each  twenty 
feet  long  by  three  feet  wide,  and  hewn  from  one  piece  of  wood.  The  next 
morning  we  were  wakened  before  daylight  when  the  canoe  began  to  rock 
violently.  I  sat  up  and  began  to  grope  round  for  a  paddle.  "Get  up,  my 
friend,  the  morning  comes,"  laughed  one  of  the  boatmen,  giving  the  canoe 
another  rock. 

"The  only  thing  I  don't  like  about  Mexico,"  Ginger  complained,  "is 
that  you  are  always  getting  up  in  the  middle  of  the  night." 

"I'll  teach  you  to  squawk,"  I  said,  and  picking  her  up  I  threw  her  over 
the  side  of  the  dugout.  I  was  just  getting  ready  to  join  her  when  she  pushed 
the  canoe  out  from  under  me  and  I  hit  the  water  with  a  splash.  A  good 
fight  was  just  getting  under  way,  when  the  Indians  began  shouting  to  us 
to  come  out  of  the  water. 

"It  is  always  bad  to  go  into  the  river  before  daylight,"  one  of  them 
admonished  us.  "The  River  Spirit  will  pull  you  down  to  the  bottom." 


196  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

I  was  puzzled  for  a  moment,  then  I  understood.  "Oh,  yes,  everything 
is  hungry  just  before  daylight.  We  will  not  tempt  the  River  Spirit  again." 

"Come,"  said  our  host  of  the  night  before,  "we  are  hungry  too." 

As  we  followed  him  to  his  little  hut,  I  warned  Ginger:  "Don’t  forget 
another  thing.  The  mud  banks  along  a  river  that  runs  through  dozens  of 
villages  are  not  apt  to  be  too  clean.  We  must  be  unusually  careful  not  to 
get  scratched  while  we  are  on  the  river." 

Our  breakfast  of  tortillas  and  black  coffee  was  quickly  disposed  of  and 
we  were  gliding  along  the  grey  river  close  to  its  black  banks.  The  air  was 
milky  with  moisture,  and  everything  was  wet.  The  muted,  early-morning 
noises  of  the  jungle  mingled  with  the  soft  sounds  of  water.  Shrouds  of 
pearly  mist  heightened  the  sense  of  mystery — the  illusion  of  travelling  in  a 
world  without  substance  or  form,  a  world  still  unready  for  the  advent  of 
three-dimensional  beings.  Now  long  shafts  of  flaming  light  streaked  over 
the  horizon  as  night  withdrew,  and  the  jungle  greeted  its  lord,  the  Sun. 

We  paddled  through  green  aisles  splashed  with  colour,  under  a  brilliant 
panoply  of  flowering  trees  whose  trunks  leaned  out  over  the  river’s  steep 
banks.  Our  eyes  were  dazzled  by  the  myriad  hues  that  blended  into  a 
prismatic  arc  as  far  as  one  could  see  up  the  river.  There  were  orchids  and 
other  exotic  flowering  growths  whose  shadings  varied  from  white  and 
palest  cream  to  flaming  orange;  from  delicate  pastel  pinks  and  mauves  to 
deep-toned  scarlet  and  imperial  purple.  The  scene  was  like  a  page  from 
some  mediaeval  manuscript. 

Wherever  possible  along  the  shaded,  winding  course,  we  paddled  single 
file.  Not  a  breath  of  wind  stirred  the  palm  fronds,  and  the  scent  of  flowers 
became  almost  overpowering  as  the  day  advanced.  Sometimes  the  steep 
banks  gave  way  to  low-lying  swamps  with  innumerable  channels  leading 
to  and  from  the  river.  Here  the  odour  of  rotting  vegetation  in  the  steamy, 
flower-scented  atmosphere  was  stifling. 

Finally  Ginger’s  strokes  began  to  lag  and  she  lay  down  in  the  bottom 
of  the  dugout  to  rest.  My  arms  and  shoulders  were  tired,  too,  and  the 
gruelling  pace  set  by  the  natives  began  to  get  my  wind.  As  the  sun  circled 
higher  and  shade  became  scarce,  I  began  to  fudge  a  little  in  my  strokes, 
and  wish  that  I  hadn’t  started  this  paddling  business  in  the  first  place. 
But  since  there  were  four  of  us  in  our  canoe  and  only  two  oarsmen  in  each 
of  the  other  canoes,  it  seemed  only  fair  that  I  should  do  my  share. 

The  natives  seemed  tireless,  as  hour  after  hour  they  pushed  their  heavy 
dugouts  forward  with  steady,  rhythmic  strokes.  I  marvelled  at  the  play  of 
muscles  under  their  sweating  bare  backs,  at  the  ever-changing  pattern  of 
sinewy  cords  that  laced  and  interlaced  the  broad  shoulders  and  arms.  This 
was  not  the  endurance  built  up  on  a  knowledge  of  vitamins  and  physical- 
culture  routines.  Corn  and  beans  and  dried  meat  and  fish  and  plenty  of 
sweating  at  the  paddles  had  produced  these  bodies. 

We  passed  a  settlement  and  a  larger  town,  neither  of  which  seemed  to 


197 


The  Country  of  Cortez 

interest  the  natives;  I  had  long  since  lost  all  interest  in  the  river.  As  I  was 
wondering  just  how  much  longer  I  could  take  it,  the  head  canoe  swung  into 
the  river  bank.  Through  the  dense  trees  we  could  see  the  thatched  roof  of  a 
hut.  When  we  arrived  the  natives  from  the  other  canoes  had  already  dis¬ 
appeared  up  the  trail  that  led  to  it.  I  suggested  a  swim  before  going  up  to 
the  house,  but  our  coxswain  vetoed  that  as  “very,  very  bad.  One  must  not 
cool  off' too  quickly." 

It  was  noon.  The  sultry  heat  wrapped  us  in  a  blanket  of  wet  steam,  and 
we  were  very  hungry.  There  were  no  indications,  however,  that  any  one 
i  ntended  to  eat.  The  owner  of  the  hut  remained  in  his  hammock  in  smiling 
silence,  and  the  natives  sauntered  off  along  little  paths  that  led  into  the 
jungle  growths.  Then  one  of  the  boys  came  back  sucking  on  a  mango.  The 
light  dawned  on  us.  We  lost  no  time  in  following  the  trail  that  led  to  a 
great  mango  tree.  Two  of  the  boys  were  seated  at  the  base  with  a  big  pile 
of  the  fruit  in  front  of  them.  The  mangoes  round  the  base  of  the  tree  had 
been  badly  crushed,  but  we  managed  to  salvage  a  number  of  sound  ones 
which  had  fallen  but  a  short  distance  and  lay  on  the  outer  edge.  There  is 
nothing  more  thirst-quenching  on  a  hot,  sultry  day  than  a  good,  juicy, 
tree-ripened  mango.  Something  like  a  peach,  it  is  solid,  luscious,  and 
slightly  acid.  Incidentally,  there  is  no  dainty  way  to  eat  a  mango.  You  just 
eat  it. 

We  next  paid  our  respects  to  a  coco-nut  grove.  Some  of  the  boys  had 
preceded  us  and  left  a  stack  of  the  green  nuts  on  the  ground.  It  takes  some 
skill  and  experience  to  know  when  to  pick  and  how  to  prepare  coco-nuts 
ror  special  uses.  They  are  best  for  drinking  when  the  shell  is  still  rather 
soft,  and  only  a  slight  film  of  meat  has  formed  on  the  inside.  The  coco-nut's 
green  outer  husk  is  sliced  off  with  a  machete  to  where  the  shell  is  visible. 
Then  with  a  single  quick,  deft  stroke  a  portion  of  the  shell  is  cut  off, 
leaving  an  opening  about  an  inch  in  diameter.  The  trick  is  to  slice  off  this 
portion  without  spilling  the  milk — which  is  not  as  easy  as  it  sounds.  The 
milk  is  delicious  and  refreshing. 

The  meal  finished,  we  went  down  to  the  river  to  wash  up.  The  boys 
had  already  returned  to  their  canoes  and  were  unloading  the  purchases 
they  had  made  in  Puerto  Mexico  and  spreading  them  out  in  the  sun  to 
dry.  We  looked  the  assortment  over,  since  we  were  interested  in  knowing 
what  they  considered  worth  the  long,  hard  trip.  There  were  several  ma¬ 
chetes,  strips  of  bright-coloured  cloth,  bags  of  rice  and  beans,  cans  of 
powder  and  shot,  several  bags  of  nails  wrapped  in  burlap,  their  town 
clothes,  and  a  few  miscellaneous  items.  We  could  understand  everything 
but  the  nails.  These,  we  discovered  upon  inquiry,  were  used  for  trading 
in  the  back  country — which  didn’t  seem  so  strange  upon  reflection.  There 
could  hardly  be  found  a  more  convenient  form  of  malleable  iron  from  which 
to  make  spears,  fishhooks  or  knife  blades.  We  were  to  learn  later  that  the 


1 98  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

back-country  people  also  use  them,  chopped  into  short  lengths,  for  their 
old  muzzle-loading  shotguns. 

Following  the  example  of  the  natives,  we  brought  out  our  own  gear 
for  an  airing.  This  is  a  very  necessary  precaution  in  humid,  hot  country, 
otherwise  mould  and  rust  soon  destroy  leather,  cloth,  and  metal.  Each 
article  of  equipment  must  be  gone  over  at  least  once  a  day,  and  at  times 
guns  and  metal  objects  must  be  oiled  twice  a  day.  To  omit  this  tedious 
task  is  to  invite  ruin  and  sometimes  disaster.  A  neglected  gun,  for  instance, 
may  mean  your  life.  This  is  one  of  many  reasons  why  it  is  wiser  not  to 
carry  equipment  that  you  can't  care  for  properly,  and  so  save  yourself  an 
enormous  amount  of  energy.  After  a  difficult  day  on  the  trail  or  at  the 
paddle  it  is  no  small  matter  to  spend  an  hour  or  two  carefully  cleaning 
guns,  sharpening  knives,  or  going  over  the  tent  and  sleeping  bag  inch  by 
inch  to  make  sure  that  no  rent  will  let  in  a  horde  of  ants  or  mosquitoes 
before  morning. 

When  we  had  finished  spreading  our  things  out  in  the  sun  I  hoped  that 
a  swim  might  be  in  order,  but  again  the  natives  said,  “Mala’*  (bad).  They 
motioned  towards  the  hut.  "It  is  now  siesta  time." 

Ginger  and  I  stretched  out  in  the  hammocks  swung  between  the  stan¬ 
chions  of  the  hut  and  tried  to  sleep,  but  it  was  quite  useless,  due  to  hordes 
of  voracious  insects.  I  sat  up  and  tried  to  think  of  something  to  do  besides 
play  host  to  our  tormentors.  Then  I  noticed  that  all  the  other  hammocks 
were  in  motion.  The  natives  were  swinging  them  by  pulling  on  small  cords 
attached  to  the  eaves,  or  by  shoving  the  ground  with  the  foot  occasionally. 

"Live  and  learn,"  said  Ginger  drowsily. 

The  motion  of  the  hammock  served  two  purposes:  it  created  a  cooling 
current  of  air,  and  the  bugs  no  longer  bothered  us.  We  swung  lazily  until 
the  sun  completed  its  midday  arc.  Then  the  boys  bestirred  themselves 
and  began  preparations  for  another  grind  at  the  paddles.  After  all  our  gear 
was  carefully  stowed  in  the  canoe  and  covered  with  palm  branches,  Ginger 
and  I  dived  into  the  cool  water  of  the  river,  but  the  natives  would  not 
follow  us. 

"Don't  you  ever  swim?"  we  asked. 

Oh,  yes,  they  replied,  but  not  with  clothes  on,  as  we  did.  Wearing  wet 
clothes  would  be  very  uncomfortable.  We  assured  them  that  we  were  used 
to  it  and  didn't  mind.  This  interested  them,  and  they  were  curious  to  know 
if  all  our  women  wore  shorts  when  travelling.  That  depended  on  where 
the  women  were  going,  we  said.  Their  own  women  wore  long  skirts 
which  they  tied  round  their  waists  when  travelling  on  the  water,  but 
they  often  got  them  wet  and  it  took  a  long  time  to  dry  them  out.  Shorts 
would  be  much  better,  they  thought. 

Ginger  wanted  to  know  of  what  material  their  women  made  their 
clothes. 

'"Long  ago  they  used  to  spin  their  thread  from  the  fibre  of  the  cotton 


199 


The  Country  of  Cortez 

tree  and  weave  it  into  beautiful  cloth,  but  now  they  seldom  weave  because 
they  like  store  cloth  better — the  colours  are  more  pleasing/’ 

During  a  lively  conversation  that  kept  up  most  of  the  afternoon,  they 
told  us  many  little  things  about  their  village,  but  we  were  unable  to  learn 
the  name  of  the  tribe  to  which  they  belonged.  It  sounded  like  Hindustani 
as  they  pronounced  it,  and  meant  River  People.  Their  Spanish  was  fairly 
good,  but  they  gave  it  an  odd,  clipped  accent. 

Soon  after  dark  we  arrived  at  the  small  village  where  we  were  to  spend 
the  night.  Several  scantily  clad  natives  came  running  to  meet  us,  but  beat 
a  hasty  retreat  at  the  sight  of  Ginger.  Younger  children,  not  so  modest, 
came  down  to  the  dugouts  and  watched  us  curiously. 

The  canoes  moored,  we  followed  the  natives  to  the  village,  which  con¬ 
sisted  of  about  twenty  huts  set  round  a  small  compound.  The  thatched 
roofs  were  steeper  than  in  other  villages  we  had  visited,  indicating  a  heavier 
rainfall.  Many  of  the  men  were  clad,  as  were  our  boatmen  when  travelling, 
only  in  a  breechcloth.  Some  of  the  older  women  were  bare  to  the  waist, 
but  most  of  the  younger  women  wore  short  jackets  in  addition  to  wrap¬ 
around  skirts. 

Our  party  now  split  up.  The  men  spent  the  night  with  friends  or  rela¬ 
tives,  while  we  accompanied  our  helmsman  to  one  of  the  larger  huts  of  the 
village.  Here  arrangements  differed  slightly  from  other  native  dwellings 
we  had  seen.  The  cooking  was  done  directly  on  the  floor  instead  of  on  a 
raised  mud  platform,  the  pots  being  supported  by  large  stones.  There  was 
in  addition  a  very  low  slab  table,  several  low  three-legged  stools,  a  number 
of  hammocks,  and  the  ever-present  metate. 

Ginger  helped  the  women  prepare  supper,  a  simple  meal  of  dried  fish 
broiled  over  the  coals,  black  coffee,  and  thick,  biscuit-like  tortillas;  then 
it  was  time  to  retire.  In  this  country  the  natives'  day  begins  when  the 
stars  are  still  bright  in  the  sky,  for  no  man  who  can  help  it  exposes  himself 
to  the  merciless  sun  of  midday.  As  I  started  to  sling  our  hammocks  between 
the  stanchions,  I  saw  a  snake  crawl  out  from  the  thatching  on  the  roof  and 
slither  along  a  crossbeam.  I  called  our  host’s  attention  to  it,  but  he  smiled. 
“He  is  our  pet,  and  we  have  two  more.’’  Everyone  kept  them,  he  explained, 
riot  only  in  their  huts  to  destroy  cockroaches  and  other  troublesome  insects, 
b»ut  in  the  fields  as  well,  to  help  exterminate  the  rats  and  mice  which 
cevoured  the  crops.  They  were  quite  harmless  to  people,  and  we  might 
pet  this  one  if  we  liked.  But  we  did  not  choose  to  pet  it. 

The  next  night  we  were  in  uninhabited  territory,  and  so  made  our  camp 
on  a  knoll  above  the  river.  This  was  the  first  opportunity  we  had  had  to  see 
l  ow  these  natives  prepared  their  food  when  on  the  trail.  They  allowed  a 
big  fire  to  burn  down  to  a  bed  of  coals,  and  after  dusting  off' the  coals  they 
laid  on  strips  of  dried  meat,  which  they  frequently  turned.  The  coflee  was 
made  in  a  small  clay  olla  placed  over  the  coals.  When  this  was  ready, 
tortillas  were  toasted,  and  the  meal  was  served.  Dried  meat  when  pre- 


200  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

pared  in  this  manner,  and  eaten  in  combination  with  the  crude  brown  sugar 
which  the  natives  call  panela ,  is  very  palatable. 

The  following  day  we  arrived  at  the  natives'  home  village  of  Suchilapan, 
which  is  near  the  head  of  navigation  of  the  Coatzacoalcos  River.  The  old 
man  whom  we  had  come  to  see  had  very  little  to  offer  in  the  way  of  new 
or  definite  information  regarding  the  so-called  Forbidden  Land.  In  the 
main,  he  simply  reiterated  the  stories  we  had  already  heard.  We  did  learn, 
however,  that  there  were  several  small  villages  further  up  the  river;  so 
when  our  friends  the  boatmen  offered  us  the  loan  of  a  small  dugout,  paddles, 
and  poles  for  navigating  the  shallower  water,  we  accepted  and  started  off 
on  a  further  quest  for  information. 

Paddling  the  dugout  up  the  misty  river  was  not  difficult,  but  poling  it 
over  the  shallows  demanded  an  expertness  which  we  had  yet  to  master.  It 
had  looked  easy  when  the  natives  manipulated  the  poles,  but  our  amateurish 
efforts  caused  the  canoe  to  skid  broadside  to  the  swift  current.  We  were 
forced  to  abandon  the  poles  and  resort  to  paddles.  By  sundown  we  had  made 
very  little  progress. 

The  second  day,  late  in  the  afternoon,  we  reached  a  small  village  and 
found  that  we  were  in  different  tribal  territory.  The  natives  were  somewhat 
less  friendly  and  more  reserved  than  the  other  Isthmian  tribes  we  had  met, 
but  we  were  welcomed  in  broken  Spanish  by  the  headman  and  offered  the 
hospitality  of  his  home. 

This  was  territory  of  the  Chimas,  said  our  host.  It  bounded  a  large 
portion  of  the  Forbidden  Land,  which  was  just  across  the  river,  but  his 
people  never  crossed.  As  we  approached  the  village  we  had  seen  evidences 
of  trees  cut  on  the  opposite  side,  and  I  asked  him  about  that.  He  explained. 
During  high  water  his  people  paddled  to  the  partly  submerged  trees  and 
cut  them  while  still  in  the  canoes.  If  a  tree  fell  into  the  water,  they  dragged 
it  to  their  own  side  of  the  river,  but  if  it  fell  on  land  they  left  it  there.  This 
land,  he  assured  us,  had  for  many  many  years  belonged  to  an  ancient  tribe. 
It  was  a  “Land  of  Spirits,"  spirits  who  forbade  any  one  to  enter,  and  it  was 
full  of  remarkable  animals.  At  time  of  high  water,  strange  objects  such  as 
carved  pieces  of  wood  and  magic  jtcarasf  which  would  not  let  any  one  touch 
them,  came  floating  past  the  village.  As  he  talked  on  the  Indian  grew 
excited  and  lapsed  more  and  more  into  his  native  tongue,  so  that  it  became 
increasingly  difficult  to  follow  him.  Before  I  lost  the  thread  of  his  discourse 
entirely,  however,  I  caught  fragments  of  a  story  about  a  great  city  some¬ 
where  in  the  high  mountains  occupied  by  a  people  different  from  other 
Indians. 

We  had  heard  from  many  tribes  this  legend  of  a  people  who  had  emi¬ 
grated  long  ago  into  the  high  mountain  country.  Not  every  tribe  knew  the 
story,  but  those  who  did  seldom  varied  its  essential  details.  It  was  known 
to  widely  separated  groups  who  had  no  intercourse  with  each  other. 
Whether  it  was  based  on  some  migration  taking  place  during  the  Conquest, 


201 


The  Country  of  Cortez 

or  before,  it  was  never  possible  for  us  to  determine.  Sometimes  the  people 
were  said  to  be  still  living,  in  other  versions  their  spirits  now  guarded 
the  land.  The  persistence  of  the  story  is  basis  for  believing  it  to  be  founded 
on  fact.  But  since  the  Indian  has  no  time  sense,  it  might  as  easily  have 
happened  a  thousand  years  ago  as  four  hundred. 

The  Chimas  told  us  that  there  was  another  village  further  up  the  river, 
but  it  was  not  possible  to  reach  it  by  water,  since  many  rapids  and  great 
falls  barred  the  way. 

The  next  morning  we  started  forth  in  hopes  that  we  might  make  the 
next  village,  but  we  travelled  all  day  without  seeing  any  signs  of  natives. 
The  river  narrowed  as  we  progressed,  and  the  current  became  much 
swifter.  The  country  round  us  grew  wilder,  and  the  flowering  vegetation 
more  profuse  and  colourful.  The  trees  were  literally  festooned  with  mag¬ 
nificent  orchids.  An  oppressive  silence  hung  over  the  jungle,  however,  that 
began  to  get  on  our  nerves.  This  was  coupled  with  a  peculiar  sense  of 
apprehension,  a  feeling  of  foreboding,  that  could  easily  have  accounted 
for  the  effect  the  country  had  on  the  imaginative  and  superstitious  natives. 

Not  succeeding  in  our  efforts  to  find  a  camping  place  in  the  late  after¬ 
noon,  we  cleared  a  little  space  on  the  river  bank  large  enough  for  the 
cooking  fire,  and  slept  in  the  canoe. 

It  was  difficult  to  make  headway  against  the  swift  current  and  the  next 
day’s  travel  brought  us  not  much  farther  upstream.  But  now  we  could  hear 
the  roar  of  water  and  knew  that  we  had  come  to  the  end  of  the  trail. 
Progress  on  foot  would  be  next  to  impossible  through  the  tangled  under¬ 
growth,  so  we  reluctantly  turned  back  downstream.  Two  days  later  we 
returned  the  canoe  to  its  owners  in  Suchilipan. 

From  Suchilipan,  on  the  advice  of  natives,  we  travelled  by  oxcart  to  the 
little  railroad  junction  of  Santa  Lucrecia,  a  day’s  journey  away,  and  on 
arriving  there  found  two  young  Americans  also  preparing  to  enter  the 
unexplored  country.  They  had  just  come  from  the  States  and  were  full  of 
enthusiasm  for  the  venture.  At  the  little  hotel  where  they  were  staying 
they  proudly  showed  us  their  equipment:  a  substantial  tent  with  heavy 
canvas  floor,  an  eight-pound  sleeping  bag  apiece,  and  an  air  mattress.  There 
were  in  addition  innumerable  small  items,  some  of  which  we  had  originally 
planned  on  taking,  and  some  that  we  had  taken  and  discarded. 

When  we  told  them  of  our  plans  to  enter  the  territory  they  immediately 
asked  to  see  our  equipment.  “There  it  is,’’  I  said,  and  pointed  to  the  two 
small  packsacks  Ginger  and  I  had  been  carrying. 

The  leader  exploded.  “Why,  man,  you  can’t  travel  in  that  country  with 
what  you’ve  got  there!  It  can't  be  done.  We’re  old-timers  at  this  game, 
and  we  know.’’ 

“That’s  all  we  have,’’  I  replied.  “The  clothes  we  are  wearing  are  what 
we  call  our  shore  clothes.  In  our  knapsacks  we  have  our  shorts,  which  we 
wear  when  travelling  alone.  We  also  carry  native  clothes  to  wear  in  the 


202  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

villages.  These,  together  with  our  pup  tent,  sleeping  bag,  hunting  knife, 
guns  and  ammunition,  camera  and  films,  part  of  our  mess  kit,  a  little  food, 
and  our  machetes,  complete  the  equipment/' 

“Listen,  mister,  you  can’t  travel  in  jungle  country  wearing  shorts.  The 
bugs  would  eat  you  alive.  You've  got  to  wear  hiking  boots,  breeches,  and 
a  heavy  shirt  to  protect  yourself.  You'd  better  learn  how  to  take  care  of 
yourselves  in  this  jungle  before  you  travel  in  it.” 

“Well,”  Ginger  said  in  a  meek  voice,  “we  spent  two  years  in  training 
before  we  left  home  and  we've  spent  two  years  in  travelling  to  get  here. 
Of  course  we're  not  authorities  on  the  finer  points  of  travelling  through 
jungles,  but  we’ve  been  on  the  outskirts  of  them  ever  since  leaving 
Mazatlan." 

Our  ideas  differed  so  much  from  theirs  that  there  was  little  we  could  say 
to  each  other  on  the  subject.  I  did  ask  them,  since  their  equipment  appeared 
new  and  unused,  if  they  had  tried  it  out  to  be  sure  it  worked  perfectly  and 
would  serve  the  purpose  for  which  it  was  intended,  but  they  seemed  to 
think  that  an  unnecessary  precaution.  For  food,  they  had  worked  out  a 
perfectly  balanced  diet  of  dehydrated  rations,  they  informed  us.  It  was 
neatly  packed  in  numerous  small  containers. 

“Are  you  going  alone  or  are  you  taking  native  guides?"  I  asked. 

They  were  going  alone,  since  natives  seemed  afraid  to  go  into  the 
country.  We  wished  them  a  successful  journey  and  departed. 

From  Santa  Lucrecia  we  went  on  to  the  little  town  of  Tolosita,  and 
while  there  heard  that  the  two  men  had  started  out  but  had  got  no  farther 
than  the  borders  of  the  territory  before  they  had  to  be  rescued  by  a  party 
of  natives.  They  had  been  found  wandering,  sick  and  half  crazed  by  the 
heat  and  insects.  One  had  been  sent  to  the  nearest  hospital  and  was  now 
in  a  critical  condition.  This  sad  state  of  affairs  was  in  all  likelihood  due 
to  the  fact  that  they  had  attempted  their  trek  without  waiting  to  become 
acclimatized,  and  were  too  heavily  loaded  to  withstand  the  gruelling  labour 
of  breaking  trail. 

In  Tolosita  we  were  the  guests  of  a  young  Spaniard  who  had  a  contract 
to  furnish  a  lumber  company  with  twelve  million  feet  of  hardwood.  The 
hundred  natives  he  employed  as  lumbermen  worked  for  several  weeks  and 
then  went  on  strike  for  more  pay.  When  he  met  their  demands  and  in¬ 
creased  their  pay  from  one  to  two  pesos  a  day,  they  went  on  strike  for 
three  pesos;  and  the  lumber  which  he  had  already  paid  them  to  cut  was 
still  lying  in  the  forest.  He  had  no  money  left  with  which  to  pay  increased 
wages  and  no  one  would  lend  him  any  more  for  fear  the  natives  would  go 
on  strike  again  before  the  logs  could  be  brought  to  the  railroad.  In  the 
meantime,  the  natives  had  taken  their  oxcarts  over  the  roads  he  had  built 
and  were  cutting  up  his  timber  for  railroad  ties,  for  which  they  received 
twenty-five  cents  apiece.  An  industrious  native,  by  working  long  hours, 
could  get  out  about  three  a  day.  Our  host's  main  concern  was  not  the  timber 


203 


The  Country  of  Cortez 

they  were  taking,  but  the  fact  that  their  heavy  oxcarts  were  cutting  up  the 
roads  so  badly  that  it  would  soon  be  impossible  for  him  to  get  heavy 
tractors  over  them  to  haul  out  his  logs. 

In  desperation  he  decided  to  go  to  Matias  Romero,  where  he  had  hopes 
of  raising  more  money,  and  invited  us  to  go  with  him.  We  accepted.  While 
we  three  were  waiting  at  the  station  the  labourers  put  in  an  appearance, 
their  idea  being  to  prevent  him  from  leaving.  Only  by  carefully  explaining 
that  he  was  going  to  secure  more  money  was  he  allowed  to  board  the  train. 

In  Matias  Romero  we  went  to  the  house  of  a  shrew  d  Arab  merchant  wdio, 
after  hearing  our  friend’s  difficulties,  sat  down  and  began  to  figure;  and 
soon  proved  that  at  three  pesos  per  day  per  man  it  would  cost  more  to  ship 
the  lumber  to  the  mill  than  he  would  get  for  it.  By  paying  one  peso  w'ages, 
he  could  make  enough  profit  to  run  a  small-gauge  railroad  into  the  timber 
country,  and  build  a  business  that  wrould  employ  a  thousand  men.  By  paying 
two  pesos,  he  could  fulfil  his  original  contract  and  break  even. 

The  young  Spaniard  decided  that  he  had  had  enough,  and  did  not  even 
bother  to  go  back  to  Tolosita  for  his  belongings.  Instead,  he  invited  us  to 
go  with  him  to  San  Jeronimo  to  witness  one  of  the  biggest  fiestas  of  the 
year,  the  Cinco  de  Mayo ,  the  Fifth  of  May. 

It  is  not  our  intention  to  attempt  an  analysis  of  the  almost  continuous 
conflict  between  capital  and  labour  in  Mexico  during  the  last  twenty  years. 
Much  has  been  written  by  able  commentators  on  the  subject,  to  which  we 
could  add  little.  But  it  is  worth  stressing  that  part  of  the  difficulty  has  been 
due  to  the  inept  way  in  which  foreigners  have  handled  the  natives.  People 
being  as  they  are,  tact  and  diplomacy  often  succeed  where  force  would 
only  add  to  the  provocation. 

On  the  way  to  San  Jeronimo  we  stopped  off  at  Chivela,  the  railroad 
station  for  what  was  once  one  of  the  largest  ranches  on  the  Isthmus.  This 
was  the  property  which  had  been  so  successfully  managed  by  the  American 
whom  we  had  visited  in  Tehuantepec.  He  had  been,  we  learned,  the  only 
man  who  had  held  the  job  and  survived  it.  His  six  predecessors  had  either 
been  murdered  or  driven  out  of  the  country.  This  state  of  affairs  had  been 
brought  about  partly  through  revolutionary  activities  and  partly  by  the 
estate  administrators  themselves.  One  of  his  first  acts  had  been  to  open 
and  tie  back  the  great  iron  gates  in  the  high  walls  that  protected  the  ranch 
house.  Then  he  invited  any  one  who  had  a  grievance  to  come  in  and  present 
it  to  him.  When  peons  arrived  bent  on  murder  if  the  administrator  failed 
to  meet  their  demands,  the  deputation  was  sure  to  be  greeted  with  soft 
words,  a  friendly  welcome,  and  a  glass  of  beer.  Sometimes  a  marimba  was 
brought  in  and  the  festivities  continued  until  the  would-be  assassins  had 
forgotten  the  purpose  of  their  visit.  It  became  a  bi-monthly  institution  at 
Chivela  for  the  rancheros  to  come  from  all  over  the  great  estate  to  make 
fiesta  at  the  hacienda.  And  so  the  work  went  on  without  interruption  for 
many  years  until  the  American  retired.  The  owner  then  attempted  to  run 


204 


Enchanted  Vagabonds 

it  himself,  and  another  shooting  took  place.  Eventually  the  government 
divided  it  into  small  farms,  and  parcelled  it  out  among  the  peons.  Some 
of  them  promptly  moved  into  town  and  as  promptly  squandered  their 
property.  Others  attempted  to  farm  their  allotments.  A  few  banded  to¬ 
gether  and  decided  to  pool  their  interests  and  hire  a  manager,  but  found 
that  his  salary  would  leave  them  little  profit.  Now  the  vast  property  was 
quickly  reverting  to  the  jungle.  It  apparently  takes  more  than  a  formula 
in  Mexico,  as  elsewhere,  to  achieve  social  justice.  Possessions  in  themselves 
have  no  value  without  the  ability  to  use  them. 

We  had  the  good  fortune  to  meet  in  San  Jeronimo  an  American  natural¬ 
ist  who  spent  part  of  each  year  on  the  Isthmus.  He  had,  like  ourselves, 
come  for  the  celebration,  and  since  he  knew  much  of  the  history  of  the 
people,  we  listened  with  interest  to  what  he  had  to  say.  "I  think  they  are 
the  happiest  people  in  the  world, ”  he  remarked  as  we  watched  the  gaily 
dressed  throng  pass  by.  “I  often  wonder  how  far  they  would  have  advanced 
had  the  discovery  of  America  been  postponed,  say,  for  a  hundred  years  or 
so.  Perhaps  by  that  time  the  Old  World  would  have  progressed  enough  to 
appreciate  the  great  culture  that  the  Conquistadors  so  ruthlessly  destroyed. 
Spain  received  no  lasting  benefit  from  her  cruel  exploitation  of  these  people; 
in  all  likelihood  she  hastened  her  downfall — historical  proof  that  easy 
money  never  benefits  its  possessor  long.” 

“What  do  you  know  about  the  high  mountain  country?”  I  asked.  “We’re 
planning  to  penetrate  the  so-called  Forbidden  Country  to  the  south  of  here 
as  soon  as  the  fiesta  is  over.” 

“I'm  afraid,”  he  answered,  “that  you  are  going  to  have  very  little  luck. 
For  the  past  fifty  years  archaeologists  have  attempted  to  get  into  that 
country  and  run  down  a  story  that  has  cropped  up  persistently  ever  since 
the  first  Mayan  ruins  were  discovered.  In  the  year  1842  a  Spanish  padre 
told  an  explorer,  John  L.  Stephens,  of  a  city  that  existed  in  the  State  of 
Chiapas — at  least  that  was  its  approximate  location.  Here  the  old  pre- 
Columbian  civilization  still  lived,  undisturbed  by  the  influences  that  had 
destroyed  it  elsewhere.  The  padre  asserted  that  it  was  on  the  other  side 
of  the  great  sierra,  about  four  days’  journey  on  the  road  to  Mexico  City. 
He  had  heard  the  story  years  before  in  the  village  of  Chajul,  where  he  was 
told  that  from  the  topmost  ridge  of  the  sierra  this  city  could  be  seen.  The 
padre  was  young  then  and  he  had  climbed  to  the  summit  of  a  tall  peak. 
From  there  he  looked  down  upon  a  large  plain  extending  to  the  north, 
and  saw  in  the  distance  the  gleaming  white  turrets  of  a  great  city.  Since 
the  padre’s  day  no  white  man  had  ever  looked  upon  this  city.  The  in¬ 
habitants,  so  said  the  Indians  of  Chajul,  spoke  the  Mayan  tongue,  were 
aware  that  strangers  had  conquered  and  ruled  the  surrounding  country, 
and  without  hesitation  killed  any  white  man  that  entered  their  territory.” 

“Well,  that  is  a  story!”  we  exclaimed. 

The  naturalist  was,  I  suspect,  somewhat  amused  at  our  brashness  in 


205 


The  Country  of  Cortez 

attempting  the  trip  in  the  face  of  so  many  failures.  We  told  him  why  we 
thought  we  had  better  chances  to  succeed  than  larger  expeditions.  They 
had  the  problem  of  feeding  many  men,  while  we  lived  off  the  country.  We 
were  used  to  the  hot,  humid  climate  and  we  had  adopted  a  psychological 
attitude  towards  the  jungle;  instead  of  fighting  it,  we  accepted  its  way  of 
life. 

We  then  discussed  our  plans  for  witnessing  the  ceremonies  to  be  held 
on  the  morrow.  The  naturalist  had  intended  to  wear  his  European  clothes 
and  watch  from  the  sidelines,  but  when  we  told  him  that  we  were  going  to 
join  in  the  fun  in  native  dress  he  decided  that  he,  too,  would  be  a  participant 
instead  of  an  onlooker. 

Undoubtedly  the  fact  that  we  wore  native  clothes,  did  our  share  of  the 
work,  and  took  part  in  the  general  life  of  the  villagers  was  the  principal 
:~eason  why  we  were  so  successful  in  getting  about  the  country,  and  were 
so  warmly  received  everywhere.  This,  perhaps  more  than  our  good  will, 
helped  to  dispel  the  Indians'  ingrained  suspicion  of  the  whites.  Even  so, 
they  were  frequently  reluctant  to  discuss  certain  subjects  with  us.  Some¬ 
times  they  engaged  in  amusing  subterfuge.  Two  or  more  of  them  would 
discuss  a  topic  just  within  earshot  of  us.  Then  if  we  overheard  their  con¬ 
versation — and  they  intended  we  should — no  one  was  directly  responsible. 

The  celebration  in  San  Jeronimo  lasted  for  several  days,  and  we  three, 
gaily  attired  in  Tehuana  clothes,  took  part  in  the  dances  and  processions 
that  began  in  the  morning  and  ended  late  at  night.  Each  afternoon  the 
festivities  were  suspended  during  the  siesta  hour,  but  the  cool  of  evening 
found  the  throng  again  promenading  the  plaza,  listening  to  the  band,  greet¬ 
ing  friends  from  out  of  town,  eating  and  drinking  at  the  many  little  tables 
where  piping  hot  tortillas,  enchiladas,  chicken,  fried  rice,  barbecued  meat, 
md  many  other  good  things  could  be  had  at  a  trifling  cost.  The  women  in 
their  colourful  costumes  looked  like  animated  flowers,  and  many  of  them 
added  to  the  brilliance  of  the  scene  by  carrying  painted  gourds  full  of  fruit 
and  flowers. 

Here  was  no  commercialized  carnival  sponsored  by  the  local  chamber 
of  commerce.  This  was  the  spontaneous  expression  of  a  people's  joy  in 
living.  These  fiestas  have  been  held  since  the  earliest  times,  and  much  of 
the  ritual  that  marks  them  does  service  not  only  for  the  commemoration  of 
political  events  or  honours  the  saints  of  Christendom  but  the  pagan  gods  of 
Mexico  as  well — for  they  are  not  forgotten. 

The  crowning  event  of  the  last  evening  was  to  be  a  bullfight.  The  bull, 
however,  was  not  a  flesh-and-blood  creation.  A  man  carrying  a  wooden 
framework  suddenly  appeared,  at  sight  of  whom  the  crowd  scattered  in 
all  directions.  Then  another  man  lighted  a  fuse,  and  the  fire-works  bull, 
for  such  it  was,  began  spurting  Roman  candles.  Carrying  the  wildly  erupt¬ 
ing  bull,  the  man  now  plunged  into  the  hilarious  throng,  charging  one 
group  of  onlookers,  then  another.  It  seemed  to  be  an  honour  to  carry  the 


206 


Enchanted  Vagabonds 

bull,  and  as  soon  as  one  man  became  exhausted,  a  second  was  ready  to 
take  his  place.  When  we  were  charged  in  our  turn  we  raced  ahead  with 
the  others,  since  had  we  hesitated  our  clothing  would  most  likely  have 
been  scorched.  In  an  effort  to  speed  up  Ginger,  who  was  hampered  by  her 
long  skirts,  I  took  one  of  her  arms  while  the  naturalist  seized  the  other. 
So  intent  were  we  upon  the  bull  at  our  heels  that  we  failed  to  see  a  low- 
banked  pool  ahead  until  we  were  almost  upon  it.  Our  friend  swerved  in 
in  a  last  minute  effort  to  avoid  it.  I  stopped  abruptly.  And  between  us,  we 
managed  to  pitch  Ginger  into  the  pool. 

At  last  the  fiesta  was  over.  Tired  and  bedraggled  as  we  were,  we 
wouldn’t  have  missed  it  for  anything,  and  our  American  friend  had  had  a 
grand  time  too.  But  now  we  had  to  think  and  plan  for  our  trip.  We  had 
hoped  to  induce  a  native  or  two  to  accompany  us,  but  our  overtures  were 
invariably  met  with  a  blank  stare  and  a  silent  refusal.  This  was  true 
whether  we  approached  natives  born  on  the  Isthmus  or  those  who  had 
come  there  from  other  parts  of  Mexico.  If  we  went  alone  it  might  be 
difficult  to  get  out  of  the  country  in  the  event  of  trouble,  but  there  seemed 
no  other  way.  It  was  a  choice  of  going  alone  and  taking  a  chance,  or  giving 
up  the  venture. 

Our  friends  among  the  natives  offered  us  horses  and  other  aids.  We 
decided  at  last  to  accept  an  old  horse,  with  the  understanding  that  if  the 
country  became  too  difficult  we  would  either  turn  it  loose  or  leave  it  at 
one  of  the  villages  en  route.  With  the  horse  to  carry  a  month's  supply  of 
food — dried  meat,  corn,  native  brown  sugar,  rice,  beans,  coffee,  salt,  and 
a  little  tobacco — we  could  scout  round  the  borders  of  the  country  and 
harden  ourselves  before  taking  the  trail  of  Diaz'  army  into  the  territory. 
No  one  could  give  us  any  information  as  to  how  far  the  trail  led;  only  that 
it  passed  through  certain  towns. 

Our  equipment  consisted  of  one  change  of  native  clothes,  our  shorts,  an 
extra  pair  of  native  sandals  apiece,  the  tent,  sleeping  bag,  mess  kit,  guns 
and  ammunition,  camera  and  films,  small  first-aid  kit  containing  perman¬ 
ganate  of  potash,  iodine  and  quinine,  one  hunting  knife,  two  machetes  and 
a  carborundum  sharpening  stone,  the  sixty-foot  lariat,  government  maps 
of  the  states  of  Chiapas  and  Oaxaca,  our  notebooks  and  pencils,  a  razor, 
a  pair  of  scissors,  and  Ginger's  powder  box. 

When  the  final  preparations  were  completed  we  divided  the  load  between 
our  two  knapsacks  and  swung  them  across  the  packsaddle  of  our  dilapidated 
old  horse,  whom  we  promptly  christened  “Pussyfoot."  We  left  town  one 
morning  before  daylight,  and  picked  out  a  road  leading  in  the  general 
direction  of  our  objective.  Our  friends  were  loath  to  say  good-bye,  for  they 
never  expected  to  see  us  again. 

A  little  distance  down  the  road  we  fell  in  with  a  party  of  natives  return¬ 
ing  home  after  the  fiesta,  and  journeyed  with  them  to  the  little  village  of 


207 


The  Country  of  Cortez 

Puente.  But  it  was  not  until  we  reached  the  village  of  Pandopan  several 
days  later  that  we  had  the  sense  of  having  left  civilization  behind. 

We  had  been  warned  that  the  people  of  Pandopan  were  outlaws,  and  it 
was  with  no  slight  trepidation  that  we  approached  the  silent  village.  No 
curious  natives  came  running  to  meet  us  as  we  trudged  boldly  in;  only  the 
cur  dogs  barked  and  snarled  at  our  heels.  Making  our  way  to  the  open¬ 
sided  hut  that  served  as  a  market  place,  we  took  the  packsaddle  from 
Pussyfoot's  tired  back.  Still  no  one  approached  us,  until  a  naked  boy  ran 
out  from  one  of  the  huts.  Ginger  held  out  her  arms  to  him  and  he  came  to 
her  as  confidently  as  he  would  to  his  mother.  With  the  little  fellow  in  her 
arms  she  walked  to  the  hut,  and  in  about  two  minutes  she  was  in  deep 
discussion  with  his  mother.  The  spell  was  broken.  Soon  natives  came 
trooping  from  their  hiding  places,  and  after  returning  my  familiar  greeting 
they  sat  on  the  ground  and  we  talked  together.  Ginger  meanwhile  re¬ 
mained  in  the  hut  in  animated  conversation  with  the  child's  mother,  whose 
name  was  Francisca.  The  father,  Jorge,  now  came  forward  and  invited  me 
to  enter  his  house  and  meet  his  family.  Jorge  and  Francisca  were  the 
village  leaders.  Having  once  made  friends  with  them,  there  was  no  further 
social  problem  in  Pandopan. 

The  hut  was  furnished  much  like  other  Indian  dwellings  except  that 
the  tables  and  stools  were  very  small,  about  the  size  a  child  would  use  to 
play  house  with.  There  seemed  no  explanation  for  them — only  that  the 
people  preferred  them  so. 

After  supper  we  sat  outside  and  talked  to  the  other  villagers.  One  old 
lady  asked  if  it  rained  where  we  came  from.  We  said  yes,  and  that  it  was 
also  cold.  They  knew  cold  only  as  a  means  of  comparison.  Food  that  was 
not  hot  off  the  fire  was  cold.  There  was  no  way  to  make  them  understand 
the  word  in  terms  of  weather,  for  the  tierra  caliente  has  only  two  seasons, 
wet  and  dry. 

The  Indians'  faces  grew  grave  when  we  told  them  of  our  plan  to  con¬ 
tinue  on  to  the  village  of  La  Tunita.  “Those  up-country  people  are  very 
bad  and  your  lives  will  be  in  danger,"  they  solemnly  assured  us. 

Despite  their  dire  warnings,  we  left  the  next  morning,  and  after  travel¬ 
ling  through  difficult  country  reached  the  village  above.  “What!  You 
have  come  from  the  village  below?"  the  natives  asked  in  amazement.  Oh, 
the  people  below  were  very  bad,  as  were  the  people  in  the  village  beyond. 
They  themselves,  however,  were  a  kind,  peaceful  people.  This  story  was 
repeated  without  variation  in  each  village  we  came  to  until  we  reached 
Tarifa. 

The  inhabitants  of  Tarifa  belonged  to  another  tribe,  and  there  were 
slight  di  Terences  in  their  appearance  and  in  their  huts  to  set  them  apart 
from  the  Indians  we  had  seen  earlier.  They  were  a  more  gracious  people. 
As  the  headman  greeted  us  he  led  us  to  a  large  thatched  hut  in  the  centre 


208 


Enchanted  Vagabonds 

of  the  village  intended  for  the  use  of  travellers.  “This/'  he  said,  ''is  your 
home.  You  are  very  welcome/' 

It  was  always  our  custom  when  entering  a  strange  village  to  make  a 
tour  of  the  huts  and  exchange  greetings  with  the  occupants.  In  Tarifa  we 
began  the  rounds  as  usual,  stopping  to  compliment  the  mothers  of  large 
families  on  their  offspring  (just  like  the  politicians  at  home  before  election) 
then  passing  on  to  the  next  hut.  Our  reception  in  this  village  was  different, 
however.  At  each  hut  we  were  invited  to  enter  and  a  little  fruit  or  dried 
meat  was  presented  to  us  with  a  good  wish.  We  finally  reached  the  home 
of  an  old  lady  who  had  nothing  to  give  but  flowers  from  her  garden.  By 
this  time  our  arms  were  loaded  with  gifts,  and  I  said  as  I  laid  them  down 
on  the  table,  “We  are  strangers  in  your  country  and  do  not  know  your 
customs,  but  it  does  not  seem  right  for  us  to  accept  your  gifts  since  we 
have  nothing  to  give  you  in  return." 

She  smiled.  “Senor,  we  believe  that  it  is  better  to  give  than  to  receive. 
When  you  leave  here,  if  you  see  a  little  child  who  might  like  a  banana,  give 
him  one,  it  will  make  him  happy.  If  you  meet  some  one  who  might  enjoy 
flowers,  then  give  the  flowers.  Thus  two  people  will  receive  gifts,  for  you 
will  be  happy  in  the  giving  and  happiness  is  the  greatest  of  gifts." 

W e  followed  her  advice,  and  passed  out  our  gifts  as  fast  as  we  received 
them.  In  the  end  we  had  one  banana  left  apiece,  but  we  had  the  sense  of 
having  shared  in  a  concept  of  human  living  that  is  all  too  uncommon.  Here 
was  a  people  who  literally  lived  a  commandment  to  which  most  of  the 
world  renders  lip  service  only. 

That  evening,  as  the  villagers  gathered  in  the  guest  house,  we  asked 
them  more  about  their  custom  of  giving,  and  how  it  worked.  Weren’t  some 
people  lazy  and  didn't  they  take  advantage  of  the  ones  who  produced?  Not 
very  long,  was  the  answer.  Each  able-bodied  person  in  the  village  followed 
some  gainful  trade  or  produced  some  useful  thing.  They  were  pottery 
makers,  weavers,  carpenters,  farmers,  or  hunters.  Their  prestige  was 
based  upon  how  much  they  could  produce  for  the  common  welfare  of  the 
group.  The  leaders  were  the  people  who  could  give  the  most.  Those  who 
were  lazy  were  looked  down  upon  by  the  community.  Such  people  either 
left  the  village  or  mended  their  ways.  Based  upon  their  needs  and  desires, 
the  standard  of  living  in  this  village  was  high.  Everyone  had  more  than 
enough. 

Here,  as  in  many  other  villages,  the  children  were  taught  their  parents' 
means  of  livelihood,  and  their  education  began  as  soon  as  they  could  walk. 
Little  boys  went  proudly  with  their  fathers  to  the  fields  to  scrape  the  milpa 
with  their  tiny  machetes,  helping  him  plant  corn.  At  an  early  age  they 
become  amazingly  proficient  and  able  to  take  care  of  themselves.  This  does 
not  mean  that  any  hardship  is  imposed  upon  the  child,  for  Mexican  children 
are  probably  the  happiest  in  the  world.  Their  parents  regard  creation  and 
production  as  play,  and  so  do  they.  They  seem  to  have  as  much  fun  helping 


The  Country  of  Cortez  209 

with  the  crops  or  patting  a  bit  of  clay  into  an  olla  as  our  children  do  in 
playing  hide  and  seek. 

Little  girls  take  great  pride  in  being  able  to  help  their  mothers.  Ginger 
told  me  of  a  four-year-old  who,  when  she  was  given  a  small  flat  rock  about 
the  shape  of  a  metate ,  painstakingly  searched  for  a  “hand"  rock,  and  finding 
one,  put  five  or  six  grains  of  corn  on  her  metate  and  began  to  grind  them. 
A  six-year-old  girl  asked  her  mother  if  she  couldn't  help  her  make  tortillas. 
Too  small  to  reach  the  grinding  stone,  she  dragged  a  stool  over  to  the 
metate  and  went  about  the  work  in  a  business-like  manner.  She  was  im¬ 
mensely  pleased  with  herself.  She  was  doing  something  useful  too.  When 
she  had  ground  enough  corn  she  carefully  patted  out  a  tortilla.  Its  edges 
cracked  and  she  remade  it.  Again  it  failed  to  suit  her,  and  again  she  worked 
it  over  until  at  last  she  achieved  a  perfect  flat  round  disk.  This  took  time 
and  patience. 

Tiny  girls,  half  as  tall  as  their  palm  brooms,  sweep  out  the  hut  and 
yard  thoroughly.  Boys  and  girls  both  carry  water  in  their  little  ollas  to 
fill  the  large  stationary  olla  kept  in  the  hut.  They  do,  according  to  their 
ability  and  size,  such  work  as  their  elders  perform. 

At  the  age  of  puberty,  generally  about  eleven  or  twelve  years,  the  girls 
are  separated  from  the  boys,  and  from  then  on  their  training  is  intensified. 
Their  shy  courtships  are  carried  on  under  the  watchful  eyes  of  the  girl's 
parents,  with  perhaps  a  little  more  freedom  during  fiestas.*  Marriage  is  by 
mutual  consent  of  the  contracting  parties  and  their  families.  Unsuitable 
matches  are  nipped  in  the  bud  before  they  become  serious.  If  a  romance  is 
allowed  to  progress  to  the  point  where  a  marriage  is  considered,  parental 
consent  is  always  obtained.  Then  after  an  exchange  of  gifts,  the  ceremonies 
are  arranged. 

The  entire  village  now  takes  a  hand  in  the  approaching  nuptials.  The 
men  go  with  their  oxcarts  into  the  jungle  to  secure  materials  for  the  new 
home.  The  women  busy  themselves  round  their  pots,  preparing  food  for 
the  fiesta  which  will  start  with  the  hut’s  construction.  The  building  com¬ 
pleted,  no  one  may  cross  the  threshold  of  the  unfurnished  hut  until  the 
bashful  couple  are  shoved  through  the  doorway.  Then  a  woven  mat,  the 
petate ,  on  which  Indians  are  born  and  die,  is  thrown  after  them,  and  they 
are  left  alone  together.  Usually  they  are  serenaded  throughout  the  night 
with  love  songs  to  the  accompaniment  of  marimbas  or  guitars. 

The  next  morning  the  village  scans  the  faces  of  the  couple  to  determine 
if  the  match  has  been  successful.  If  so,  the  furnishings  for  the  hut  are 

*  The  dances  held  during  these  fiestas  are  primarily  for  the  purpose  of  choosing  a  mate  by 
scent.  The  Indians  believe  that  since  everything  in  nature  has  an  odour,  human  odour  is  most 
important;  they  believe  that  it  reveals  sickness,  fear,  hate,  and  love,  and  indicates  sexual 
affinity.  This  belief  plays  an  important  part  in  their  lives.  They  say  that  mates  chosen  by  scent 
always  form  lasting  unions.  Frequently  you  will  hear,  “I  chose  him  (or  her)  because  he 
smelled  good.”  A  girl  who  is  attracted  by  a  man  will  sometimes  induce  the  Wise  One  to  place 
some  article  that  she  has  worn  in  or  near  his  bed.  Wives  sometimes  do  this  if  their  husbands 
show  signs  of  coldness  towards  them. 


210  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

brought  in,  and  a  housewarming  follows.  But  if  they  are  not  pleased  with 
each  other  (which  rarely  happens)  the  girl  returns  to  her  home  and  the 
boy  leaves  the  village.  Divorce  after  the  second  night  is  unheard  of  in  the 
outlying  villages.  In  the  event  of  death  the  survivor  seldom  marries  a 
second  time.  A  widow  is  ordinarily  taken  into  some  other  family.  A  man 
usually  packs  up  his  belongings  and  moves  elsewhere. 

Authorities  differ  widely  in  their  interpretations  of  the  customs,  religion, 
and  traditions  of  Mexican  tribes.  This  is  partly  because  an  observer  fre¬ 
quently  translates  Indian  behaviour  into  terms  of  his  own  social  order  or 
psychology.  The  early  Spanish  commentators  tried  to  find  parallels  be¬ 
tween  sixteenth-century  European  culture  and  the  culture  of  the  New 
World.  They  talked  of  “emperors”  and  "empires/'  and  any  one  who  knows 
Indians  knows  that  such  concepts  are  alien  to  them.  Each  tribe  has  a  leader, 
but  his  office  is  not  hereditary;  he  is  elevated  to  his  position  by  reason  of 
his  superior  attributes  and  his  ability  to  solve  the  group's  problems.  He 
leads  the  religious  ceremonies  and  other  communal  activities,  and  though 
he  is  accorded  respect  by  other  members  of  the  tribal  unit,  his  word  is  far 
from  law.  An  American  business  executive  (even  a  minor  one)  is  the  re¬ 
cipient  of  more  kotowing  than  all  the  tribal  chiefs  of  Mexico.  There  is  no 
place  in  the  communal  organization  of  an  Indian  village  for  the  individual¬ 
ist.  The  survival  of  the  group  depends  upon  the  harmonious  working  to¬ 
gether  of  its  members,  upon  a  subordination  of  the  parts  to  the  whole.  The 
result  is  an  absence  of  friction,  and  freedom  from  the  necessity  of  continu¬ 
ally  asserting  one's  self.  The  clash  of  personalities  which  seems  inevitable 
to  social  intercourse  among  our  people  has  no  counterpart  there.  If,  as 
occasionally  happens,  an  Indian  talks  too  much  about  himself  or  boasts 
unduly,  he  is  given  a  wide  berth  by  the  others. 

The  Indian  sees  very  little  point  in  discussing  his  beliefs  or  way  of  liv¬ 
ing.  Fundamentally  a  realist,  he  accepts  things  as  they  are  or  as  they  ap¬ 
pear  to  him.  Things  or  beliefs  are  valuable  because  they  are  useful  or 
beautiful.  The  modern  Indian  has  undoubtedly  degenerated  culturally  in 
recent  years,  but,  particularly  in  those  communities  under  the  old  tribal 
organization,  his  formula  of  living  is  based  upon  a  fairly  sound  premise. 
Much  of  what  is  called  his  magic  is  not  magic  at  all;  white  men  have  con¬ 
sistently  misused  the  term.  The  Old  One  or  the  Wise  One,  or  whatever 
the  tribe  calls  its  practitioner,  is  usually  a  good  psychologist;  his  teachings 
and  prescriptions  have  a  great  deal  of  sense  and  considerable  therapeutic 
value  behind  them.  But  like  all  good  showmen,  the  practitioner  knows  the 
value  of  making  simple  things  sound  mysterious. 

Most  Indians  are  monotheists,  believing  in  one  God,  who  often  employs 
agents.  We  discussed  the  purpose  of  human  sacrifice  with  one  old  shaman, 
and  found  his  attitude  interesting.  There  is  no  evidence  that  sacrifice  is 
still  practised,  but  the  reasons  he  gave  for  it  were  logical.  To  begin  with, 
the  Indian  neither  fears  death  nor  troubles  himself  over-much  about  a 


211 


The  Country  of  Cortez 

phenomenon  which  is  universal.  Hence  to  him  it  is  not  something  to  be 
unduly  avoided.  He  believes  in  a  personal  immortality,  and  death  in  a  good 
cause,  particularly  if  it  benefits  the  tribe,  is  an  honour.  In  the  past,  in  times 
of  war  or  drought,  when  all  other  appeals  had  failed,  it  seemed  logical  to 
send  a  personal  representative  to  stress  the  urgency  of  the  people’s  need. 
A  warrior  of  renown  or  a  beautiful  woman  of  stainless  reputation  was 
chosen.  Such  a  one  after  death  could  surely  plead  for  immediate  assistance 
more  effectively  than  could  an  earth-bound  mortal.  God  works  through 
agents,  why  not  men?  The  shaman  asked  us  if  we  believed  that  God  sent 
the  santos  and  the  gentle  Jesus  to  men,  and  if  we  did,  why  then  was  it 
strange  that  Indians  sent  messengers  to  Him? 

It  frequently  seems  to  the  casual  observer  that  native  superstitions  and 
religion  are  inextricably  mixed.  Most  superstitions  have  nothing  to  do 
with  religion.  They  are,  as  I  have  explained  earlier,  metaphorical  ways  of 
expressing  natural  phenomena  or  relationships  between  cause  and  effect. 
One  day  after  a  hot  and  difficult  march  we  pulled  into  a  small  village.  The 
horse  was  dog-tired  and  sweaty,  and  I  immediately  started  to  remove  the 
saddle.  An  Indian  stopped  me.  “No,  no,  you  must  not  do  that.  You  must 
wait  or  an  evil  spirit  will  jump  on  your  horse  and  ride  him  to  his  death.’’ 
He  was  telling  us  that  it  was  dangerous  to  let  a  sweaty  horse  cool  off'  too 
fast.  In  the  high  altitudes  it  is  often  fatal. 

Dangerous  roads  are  possessed  of  evil  spirits  after  dark.  They  in  all 
likelihood  are,  for  the  traveller  is  apt  to  break  his  neck  if  he  essays  some 
of  them  at  night. 

As  we  continued  on  towards  the  mountain  country  the  maps  became 
more  unreliable — if  such  a  thing  could  be.  A  river  supposed  to  empty  into 
the  Pacific  drained  into  the  Atlantic.  A  village  marked  on  one  river  was 
on  another  river  across  the  continental  divide. 

The  villagers  everywhere  we  stopped  tried  to  dissuade  us  from  going 
farther.  Stories  of  the  outlaw  and  bandit  tribes  who  inhabited  the  area 
ahead  became  more  lurid.  Our  route  now  lay  over  a  high  divide  and  up  a 
canyon  or  valley  to  the  north,  where  we  were  supposed  to  pick  up  the 
trail  of  Diaz’s  army.  It  took  us  two  days  of  difficult  travel  over  a  succes¬ 
sion  of  high  ridges  before  we  finally  dropped  down  into  the  valley.  This 
was  the  reputed  home  of  the  bandits,  and  our  progress  became  slower  as 
we  carefully  detoured  round  likely  places  for  an  ambush. 

After  several  tortuous  miles  we  came  suddenly  upon  a  well-worn  trail 
and  followed  it  in  the  direction  of  the  river,  since  any  settlement  would  be 
there.  But  after  another  mile  or  so  the  shadows  began  to  lengthen,  so  we 
decided  to  stop  for  the  night  in  a  little  clearing. 

While  we  were  setting  up  camp,  three  natives  carrying  guns  came  to¬ 
wards  us.  We  immediately  prepared  ourselves  for  battle  by  dropping  prone 
behind  our  knapsacks.  Then  as  the  Indians  continued  to  approach  with  no 
sign  of  harmful  intent,  we  got  up  feeling  rather  silly. 


212  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

We  gave  them  the  usual  explanation  of  our  presence  in  the  country  and 
invited  them  to  have  a  cup  of  coffee,  expressing  regret  that  we  had  nothing 
to  offer  them  to  eat  since  we  had  not  yet  secured  permission  to  hunt  in 
their  territory.  One  of  the  men  smiled  at  this  and  said  in  poor  Spanish,  "I 
am  pleased  that  you  recognize  that  this  is  our  land/' 

It  occurred  to  me  then  that  he  was  probably  the  chief,  for  he  was  com¬ 
pletely  dressed  in  a  hand-woven  pyjama  suit  common  to  headmen,  while 
the  other  two  wore  only  pants.  They  were  tough-looking  customers  and 
had  little  to  say.  As  we  sat  and  sipped  our  coffee  and  looked  at  each  other, 
the  headman  broke  the  silence.  “You  have  travelled  in  many  countries?” 

“Yes,”  I  said.  “Many  countries.” 

“And  do  they  have  spirits  in  other  countries?” 

This  gave  us  something  to  talk  about,  and  we  told  of  our  long  and  in¬ 
timate  contact  with  spirits,  and  of  our  trip  down  the  coast.  But  the  ocean 
was  incomprehensible  to  him,  so  I  turned  to  the  subject  of  guns.  All  three 
of  them  had  been  looking  at  our  side  arms  with  unconcealed  interest,  and 
we  were  curious  to  examine  their  old  muzzle-loaders.  They  were  of  ancient 
vintage.  How  they  ever  found  their  way  into  this  country  was  something 
to  ponder  over. 

As  I  looked  at  his  gun,  an  eager  expression  came  over  the  chief’s  face. 
“Are  you,  too,  aware  of  it?”  he  asked. 

“Wha — ?  Oh,  yes,  yes,”  I  answered,  wondering  what  he  meant. 

“Then  perhaps  you  can  do  something  about  it,”  he  said  handing  me 
the  weapon. 

I  examined  the  rusty  old  piece  more  closely  and  handed  it  back  to  him. 
He  looked  disappointed.  “But,  Senor,”  he  pleaded,  “can’t  you  do  some¬ 
thing  about  it?” 

I  looked  questioningly  at  Ginger,  but  she  shook  her  head.  We  had  no 
clue  as  to  what  he  wanted  us  to  do.  “Tell  me  more  about  it,  my  friend,” 
I  urged. 

“The  spirit,”  he  said  excitedly,  then  grabbed  his  gun  and  pointed  to  the 
barrel.  “He  sits  right  here,  astraddle,  and  every  time  I  fire  the  gun  he 
jumps  on  the  bullet  and  steers  it  to  one  side  so  that  it  will  not  hit  anything.” 

Here  was  the  break  we  had  been  looking  for.  “But  what  have  you  done, 
my  friend,  to  deserve  such  a  spirit  in  your  gun?”  I  asked.  “Have  you  killed 
people?  Many  guns  have  spirits,  but  most  of  them  are  good  spirits  like  the 
spirit  in  my  gun.”  I  drew  the  heavy  Luger  from  its  holster.  His  eyes  wid¬ 
ened  as  he  looked  at  its  complicated  mechanism.  “This  gun,”  I  continued, 
“has  a  good  spirit.  It  will  not  allow  any  one  but  me  to  shoot  it.  If  any  one 
else  should  steal  this  gun,  it  immediately  kills  the  one  who  takes  it.  Take 
it,  see  if  the  spirit  will  allow  you  to  fire  the  gun.” 

The  old  fellow  eagerly  accepted  the  Luger  and  turned  it  over  and  over 
in  his  hands  admiringly.  “Go  ahead,”  I  prompted,  “see  if  you  can  shoot  it.” 
He  held  the  gun  at  arm's  length  and  covering  his  face  with  his  free  hand 


21 S 


The  Country  of  Cortez 

squeezed  the  trigger— nothing  happened.  The  safety  catch  was  on.  His 
face  was  a  study  in  bewilderment  as  he  pulled  the  trigger  intermittently. 
We  prayed  that  he  wouldn’t  inadvertently  slip  the  catch,  because  there  was 
no  knowing  just  where  the  bullet  would  fly.  Tapping  the  Luger's  intricate 
mechanism  with  his  forefinger,  he  wanted  to  know  what  all  the  little  pieces 
were  for. 

"This  is  a  strange  gun,"  I  answered.  "It  keeps  on  firing  until  it  hits 
the  object  aimed  at."  Since  he  had  never  seen  an  automatic  it  was  safe  to 
endow  it  with  magic  properties  which  he  might  think  extended  to  its 
owners. 

"Perhaps  you  can  do  something  about  the  evil  spirit  in  my  gun,"  he 
said  hopefully. 

I  agreed  that  perhaps  I  could  but  that  it  would  help  if  he  would  make 
me  a  promise  that  neither  he  nor  his  people  would  use  a  gun  to  kill  a 
human  being.  I  added  that  it  would  be  too  bad  if  evil  spirits  took  posses¬ 
sion  of  all  the  guns  in  the  village.  He  was  prompt  to  promise  and  invited 
us  to  visit  his  village  the  following  day. 

With  that  they  took  their  leave  and  I  set  to  work  on  the  old  muzzle- 
loader,  which  the  chief  insisted  on  leaving  behind.  It  had  probably  never 
been  cleaned  since  coming  into  his  possession.  The  barrel  was  caked  with 
rust.  I  made  a  ramrod  out  of  a  sapling  and  gave  it  a  thorough  overhauling. 

While  we  were  eating  breakfast  the  next  morning  the  chief,  escorted  by 
several  of  his  tribe,  put  in  an  appearance.  He  received  the  gun  with  ex¬ 
clamations  of  pleasure  at  my  assurance  that  it  now  had  a  "good  spirit." 
After  breakfast  we  followed  them  back  to  the  village.  Late  that  afternoon, 
the  chief,  who  had  gone  hunting,  reappeared  lugging  a  good-sized  deer. 
This  was  the  first  kill  he  had  made  in  months,  and  he  was  overjoyed — as  I 
was  at  the  success  of  my  magical  gifts. 

The  deer  was  taken  to  the  open  shed  that  served  as  a  market,  and  several 
men  helped  the  chief  to  butcher  and  distribute  the  meat  to  all  comers.  In  the 
end  the  chief  had  the  poorest  piece  left  for  himself.  Curious  as  to  why  he 
had  not  retained  a  better  portion,  I  questioned  him.  He  grinned.  "To¬ 
morrow,  Senor,  some  one  else  may  kill  a  deer,  and  then  perhaps  I  shall 
get  the  best  piece.  It  is  best  to  give  the  best,  that  makes  everyone  happy. 
This  will  do  for  today." 

We  had  been  told  that  this  village  was  the  last  outpost  before  entering 
the  unexplored  area,  and  that  Diaz’s  army  had  passed  through  it.  Since 
we  did  not  want  the  natives  to  know  that  we  planned  to  go  further,  we  re¬ 
plied  to  their  questions  by  telling  them  that  we  were  following  the  river  a 
few  miles  and  were  then  returning  to  the  village  below.  They  warned  us 
not  to  go  more  than  two  miles  beyond  their  village.  An  army  had  once 
tried  to  pass  that  way  and  the  spirits  had  destroyed  them.  The  women  cried 
on  Ginger’s  neck,  moaning,  "Oh,  the  poor  Senora.  Be  careful  and  do  not 
go  farther." 


214  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

When  we  started  off,  Pussyfoot  was  groaning  under  the  load  of  food 
they  had  insisted  on  giving  us. 

The  native  trail  continued  on  for  about  two  miles  and  then  disappeared. 
A  fence  we  found  across  the  narrow  valley  had  been  built  to  keep  cattle 
from  straying  into  the  Forbidden  Land.  We  took  down  a  section  of  it,  let 
Pussyfoot  through,  and  then  replaced  the  bars. 

Well,  here  we  were.  Now  what?  Ahead  of  us  lay  the  land  of  mystery. 


Chapter  Tzventy 


THE  FORBIDDEN  LAND 

As  we  trudged  up  the  valley,  cutting  our  way  through  the  dense  growth, 
l  we  were  both  preoccupied  with  the  probable  nature  of  the  danger  that 
gave  this  land  its  evil  reputation.  Discounting  the  interference  of  super¬ 
natural  agencies,  there  still  remained  plenty  of  likely  reasons  why  this 
country  had  so  successfully  resisted  man’s  invasion.  True,  the  land  was 
mountainous,  but  this  was  not  unusual  in  Mexico.  Unless  one  believed  the 
legend  of  inhabited  Mayan  cities,  there  seemed  no  human  agency  to  fear. 
Three  things  remained:  poisonous  plants,  deadly  insects,  or  some  endemic 
of  the  country.  One  of  these  three  had  killed  an  army.  But  which  one? 
Round  the  night  fires  in  a  dozen  little  villages,  we  had  listened  to  strange 
stories  of  an  enchanted  lake,  magic  gourds,  fearsome  beasts;  to  tales  of 
vengeful  spirits  that  guarded  this  land  well.  Although  we  had  heard  noth¬ 
ing  concrete  of  which  to  be  afraid,  these  stories  created,  against  all  reason, 
a  state  of  mind  in  which  the  very  atmosphere  was  surcharged  with  an 
ominous  quality.  We  were  more  affected  than  we  liked  to  admit  by  the 
genuine  fear  that  this  country  inspired  in  the  natives. 

The  jungle,  in  itself  frightening  to  many  people,  we  had  grown  to  like. 
While  it  was  full  of  physical  discomfort,  it  had  nevertheless  an  inexhausti¬ 
ble  fascination.  There  was  an  excitement,  a  sense  of  uncertainty,  in  travel¬ 
ling  through  it,  a  continual  challenge  to  the  spirit  of  adventure.  We  had 
worked  out  a  philosophy  regarding  it  and  ourselves  that  perhaps  gave  us  a 
certain  detachment  from  the  purely  personal  considerations  of  bodily  pain 
which  is  an  inescapable  concomitant  to  jungle  travel.  We  had  accepted  the 
fact  that  the  jungle  can't  be  fought.  It  imposes  a  necessity  for  compromise, 
a  yielding  and  an  adaptability  to  its  humours,  that  makes  men  hate  or 
love  it. 

All  that  day  and  the  next  we  cut  through  the  heavy  growth  of  the 
canyon,  following  the  trail  of  the  army.  Many  of  the  trees  were  covered 
with  the  scars  of  their  machete  marks,  but  there  was  nothing  to  indicate 
that  they  had  encountered  any  difficulty  beyond  that  inherent  in  entering 
the  jungle  at  all. 

Late  that  afternoon,  however,  our  bodies  began  to  sting  as  if  a  thousand 
needles  were  being  jabbed  into  us.  With  one  accord  we  started  cutting 
our  way  to  the  water.  Unstrapping  our  gun  belts,  we  hurriedly  jumped 
into  the  pool.  Our  bodies  were  covered  with  pinolillos ,  those  tiny,  biting 


216  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

curses  of  the  jungle.  We  scrubbed  them  off  with  pads  of  moss  before  they 
had  a  chance  to  dig  in,  and  immediately  took  off  our  native  clothes  and 
put  on  shorts.  The  horse's  legs  were  also  covered  with  them,  so  we  gave 
her  a  scrubbing  in  the  pool.  Since  the  tiny  ticks  burrow  into  the  seams  of 
clothing,  it  was  evident  that  men  in  shoes,  breeches,  and  leggings  must 
have  suffered  tortures  from  them. 

That  night,  while  setting  up  camp,  we  found  the  ground  covered  with 
conchudos ,  a  larger  and  equally  painful  tick.  For  us  the  solution  was  simple; 
we  burnt  off  the  camp  site  and  set  up  the  bug-proof  tent;  but  poor  old 
Pussyfoot  had  no  relief  from  their  torment  throughout  the  night.  In  the 
morning  we  spent  over  an  hour  picking  them  off'  her.  There  were  hun¬ 
dreds  of  them  in  her  ears,  which  were  raw  and  bleeding  by  the  time  we 
had  pulled  the  last  one  out.  We  daubed  them  with  a  solution  of  permanga¬ 
nate,  and  continued  on  up  the  canyon. 

High  cliffs  closed  in  on  either  side  of  us.  It  was  necessary  to  cross  and 
recross  the  stream  to  find  a  place  wide  enough  to  get  through.  The  horse 
suffered  more  than  we  did,  for  although  we  unloaded  her  pack  and  carried 
it  ourselves,  the  stream  bed  was  so  deep  and  so  filled  with  boulders  that 
she  had  difficulty  in  making  the  fords.  By  noon  she  was  so  exhausted  that 
we  picked  a  fairly  clear  place  near  the  stream  and  made  camp.  The  canyon 
opened  out  here,  and  just  behind  us  was  a  large  flat  shaded  by  great  trees. 
As  I  led  Pussyfoot  back  into  the  flat,  looking  for  a  place  for  her  to  forage, 
I  saw  a  shiny  object  sticking  up  out  of  the  humus.  It  was  a  battered  enam¬ 
elled  pot.  I  called  excitedly  to  Ginger,  for  I  knew  this  was  possible  evidence 
that  the  army  had  camped  here.  Together  we  unearthed  pieces  of  old  army 
cots,  rusted  rifle  barrels  whose  stocks  had  almost  completely  rotted  away, 
battered  kettles,  and  other  bits  of  rusted  and  decomposed  army  equipment. 
We  spent  the  rest  of  the  day  trying  to  decipher  the  fate  of  the  men  who  had 
left  these  things  behind  them. 

The  next  morning  I  found  Pussyfoot  with  her  head  bowed  almost  to  the 
ground.  There  were  several  deep  gashes  on  both  sides  of  her  neck.  The 
hair  below  them  was  matted  with  dried  blood,  and  they  looked  as  though 
they  had  been  cut  with  a  very  sharp  knife.  The  poor  horse  was  so  weak 
from  loss  of  blood  that  she  stumbled  repeatedly  as  I  led  her  back  to  camp, 
and  I  knew  that  it  was  not  possible  to  take  her  any  farther  into  a  country 
infested  with  vampire  bats.  Contrary  to  general  opinion,  these  bats  are 
not  bloodsuckers,  but  they  lap  up  the  blood  which  runs  freely  from  the  in¬ 
cisions  which  they  make  with  their  sharp  teeth.  The  only  thing  to  do  was 
to  take  Pussyfoot  back  to  the  last  village  that  we  had  come  through  and 
leave  her.  The  fence  would  have  prevented  her  from  reaching  the  village 
without  us,  and  if  we  turned  her  loose  on  the  other  side  of  it  without  put¬ 
ting  in  an  appearance  ourselves,  the  natives  would  either  start  looking  for 
us,  or  send  out  word  that  we  were  lost.  So  we  escorted  Pussyfoot  back  to 
the  village,  taking  four  days  to  make  the  trip  and  return. 


The  Forbidden  Land 


217 


Travelling  up  the  canyon  now  became  difficult.  Each  of  us  carried  a 
heavy  pack,  and  we  had  to  cut  every  foot  of  the  way  if  we  travelled  along 
the  river’s  banks.  If  we  waded  in  the  stream,  we  had  to  fight  a  swift  cur¬ 
rent  as  well  as  climb  over  the  huge  boulders  which  filled  its  bed.  All  along 
the  way  we  continued  to  find  evidences  of  the  men  who  had  preceded  us. 
Numbers  of  blazed  trees  indicated  that  at  least  a  considerable  number  of 
them  had  come  this  far.  Then  one  day  we  came  across  the  last  traces  that 
we  were  to  find. 

For  several  miles  their  trail  had  been  growing  fainter.  Finally  we  lost  it 
completely.  We  stopped  to  reconnoitre.  A  short  distance  behind  us  there 
was  a  large  open  cave  in  the  face  of  the  limestone  cliff,  and  we  made  our 
way  back  to  it.  Its  roof  was  blackened  by  the  smoke  of  many  campfires. 
Digging  round  in  the  humus  near  the  entrance  yielded  bits  of  every  con¬ 
ceivable  thing  that  an  army  would  carry.  The  equipment  was  so  thickly 
scattered  about  that  every  square  foot  of  ground  gave  up  something.  The 
men  had  thrown  away  their  machetes,  the  one  indispensable  tool  in  the 
jungle.  There  were  parts  of  rifles,  cooking  gear,  buttons  from  clothes,  but 
not  a  solitary  clue  to  what  had  become  of  the  men  themselves.  Nor  did  we 
ever  find  any — but  we  think  we  know. 

We  decided  to  make  camp  on  their  old  site  and  see  if  anything  would 
throw  further  light  on  their  tragedy.  For  it  was  evident  that  the  army’s 
wild  rout  had  been  caused  by  something.  Men  in  the  jungle  do  not  throw 
away  their  machetes,  their  guns,  their  clothing  for  no  reason,  particularly 
men  who  are  native  to  the  country.  We  doubted  that  they  had  been  attacked 
by  wild  Indians,  for  the  Indians  would  surely  have  salvaged  the  guns  and 
machetes.  Certainly  starvation  or  lack  of  water  had  not  been  the  cause,  for 
the  jungle  was  full  of  foodstuffs  with  which  some  of  them  at  least  would 
have  been  familiar,  while  the  river  was  only  a  stone’s  throw.  True,  the 
place  was  alive  with  pinolillos  and  conchudosy  but  we  were  beginning  to  de¬ 
velop  a  certain  immunity  to  their  poison,  and  it  hardly  seemed  likely  that 
they  had  suddenly  finished  off  several  hundred  men.  The  thing  that  puzzled 
us  most  was  why  they  had  not  turned  back.  The  trail  which  they  had  cut  in 
would  still  have  been  fresh,  and  they  were  no  more  than  a  week's  journey 
from  the  village  where  we  had  taken  Pussyfoot.  The  possibility  of  some 
swift  and  deadly  epidemic  remained,  or  some  unknown  scourge — something 
as  deadly  to  men  as  the  vampire  bats  were  to  animals.  Like  the  beaches 
along  the  coast  of  Baja  California  where  we  had  come  across  the  camp  sites 
of  shipwrecked  crews,  this  place  filled  us  with  a  sense  of  desolation  which 
we  did  our  best  to  fight  off.  At  last,  tired,  depressed,  and  no  nearer  the  solu¬ 
tion  of  the  mystery  than  when  we  arrived,  we  went  to  sleep  in  our  bug- 
proof  tent. 

When  I  awoke  my  whole  body  felt  as  if,  to  use  a  familiar  expression,  it 
had  “gone  to  sleep.’’  It  was  numb  and  tingly  all  over,  as  though  the  cir¬ 
culation  had  been  impeded.  My  head  felt  as  if  it  were  stuffed  with  cotton. 


218 


Enchanted  Vagabonds 

The  feeling  was  much  the  same  as  the  aftereffects  of  an  anaesthetic.  I  lay 
still  for  a  while  trying  to  determine  what  could  be  the  matter  with  me. 
When  I  finally  unzipped  the  tent  flaps  and  staggered  out  I  could  hardly 
use  my  legs;  they  felt  like  unwieldy  clubs.  Something  was  decidedly  wrong, 
and  I  wakened  Ginger.  She  rolled  over  on  her  stomach  and  crawled  out  of 
the  tent.  I  stared  at  her  body  in  amazement  and  horror.  From  the  expres¬ 
sion  on  her  face  I  knew  that  I  must  be  in  a  similar  condition.  With  a  sicken¬ 
ing  shock  I  realized  what  had  happened  to  us.  We  stared  at  each  other  for 
a  long  minute  and  then  uttered  the  one  word,  “talaje.”  The  most  deadly 
insect  in  the  jungle  had  bitten  us.  The  natives  regarded  it  as  a  catastrophe 
of  the  first  magnitude  to  be  bitten  once  by  a  talaje — and  we  were  covered 
with  their  bites.  The  possible  dangers  of  our  condition  made  a  malarial 
attack  alone  in  the  jungle  seem  about  as  important  as  a  light  case  of  the 
grippe  at  home.  Minutes  passed  before  we  could  collect  our  scattered  wits. 
I  crawled  back  into  the  tent  and  examined  the  sleeping  bag,  which  was 
fairly  alive  with  the  little  grey  insects.  In  one  corner  of  the  tent  was  a  small 
tear  in  the  canvas  floor.  Somehow,  some  way,  we  had  snagged  the  tent 
during  the  previous  day's  travelling,  and  the  talajes  had  found  their  way  in. 

The  talaje  is  a  small  grey  insect  which  travels  only  at  night,  and  is  found 
only  in  certain  sections  of  the  country.  It  is  believed  that  they  live  in  humus 
or  rotten  wood.  Occasionally  they  are  found  in  native  huts.  Flesh-eaters, 
they  are  reputed  to  travel  great  distances  following  the  scent  of  human 
beings.  Before  the  talaje  bites  its  host  it  injects  under  the  skin  an  anaesthetic 
powerful  enough  to  numb  the  flesh  for  an  hour  or  two.  Then  it  injects  an¬ 
other  chemical  which  dissolves  the  flesh  upon  which  the  insect  feeds.  When 
it  is  through  feeding,  blood  fills  the  little  cavity  beneath  the  skin,  forming 
a  blister.  Within  a  short  time  a  black  bruise  forms  round  the  blister  as 
the  poison  works  its  way  out  through  the  capillaries  of  the  skin.  If  the  skin 
is  broken  a  running  sore  develops  which  lasts  for  several  months,  and 
since  it  is  liable  to  infection  it  is  frequently  fatal.  If  the  blister  is  not  broken 
new  flesh  forms  in  the  cavity  in  about  a  week.  Then  the  sore  scabs  over 
and  dries  up. 

Now  we  knew  what  had  happened  to  the  army,  but  death  for  ourselves 
seemed  a  pretty  stiff  price  to  pay  for  finding  out.  We  carefully  picked  our 
way  down  to  the  creek  and  as  carefully  washed  the  remaining  talajes  from 
our  clothes  and  bodies,  for  one  careless  move  might  break  a  blister.  Then 
we  sat  on  a  rock  with  our  feet  in  the  water  and  tried  to  plan.  It  was  almost 
impossible  to  think  coherently  because  of  the  toxic  conditions  of  our  bodies 
and  the  pain  of  the  wounds,  now  that  the  anaesthetic  was  beginning  to 
wear  off. 

"Dan,"  Ginger  said,  "we've  got  to  get  out  of  this  country  somehow, 
but  how  are  we  going  to  do  it?" 

"I  don't  know,"  I  replied.  "We  can't  carry  our  packs,  or  even  wear  our 
gun  belts  without  breaking  some  of  these  blisters.  Even  our  feet  are  blis~ 


' 


i  «M  *  / ’  *  ;  •  •’  WM 


The  Forbidden  hand  221 

tered,  and  we  don’t  dare  put  on  sandals — let  alone  hike.  It’s  a  hard  week's 
travelling  back  to  the  village.” 

Then  Ginger  said  something  that  gave  us  an  idea  as  we  turned  over  in 
our  befuddled  minds  the  lew  possibilities  for  action.  “We’ve  got  to  stay 
here  until  these  bites  heal,  but  we  can’t  stay  in  that  camp.  Oh,  if  we  could 
only  find  an  island.” 

We  started  off'  upstream  in  search  of  an  island,  but  our  progress  was 
painfully  slow.  Each  move  had  to  be  calculated  in  advance,  so  as  not  to 
brush  against  anything  that  might  break  a  blister,  and  each  movement  made 
us  wince  with  pain.  Our  nervous  systems  were  so  dulled  by  the  poison 
that  our  arms  and  legs  responded  poorly  to  our  efforts  to  use  them,  and 
our  heads  seemed  three  times  larger  than  normal.  We  continued  the 
search,  however,  until  further  progress  became  impossible;  the  way  was 
blocked  by  falls. 

Discouraged  by  our  failure,  we  made  our  way  back  to  camp.  The  first 
thing  that  had  to  be  done  was  to  rid  the  tent  and  sleeping  bag  of  the 
talajes.  Ginger  pulled  the  sleeping  bag  down  to  the  creek  and  began  to 
search  them  out  and  kill  them,  while  I  got  the  tent  down  to  the  water. 
Afterwards  we  built  a  fire  and  made  some  coffee.  Neither  of  us  had  any 
appetite  for  food.  As  we  sipped  the  coffee  in  silence,  both  of  us  preoccupied 
with  our  problem,  I  was  filled  with  admiration  for  Ginger’s  courage,  for 
she  had  never  once  complained.  This  heartened  me  as  well,  for  the  situa¬ 
tion  was  going  to  call  for  all  the  self-denial  and  determination  that  we  had. 
We  should  have  to  guard  not  only  ourselves  but  each  other  as  well  against 
any  possible  chance  of  breaking  a  blister.  If  either  one  of  us  should  stumble 
or  slip  against  a  rough  surface,  or  even  a  twig,  our  chance  of  survival 
would  be  almost  hopeless.  The  resultant  running  sores  were  focal  points 
for  infection. 

Ginger  set  down  her  cup  and  gazed  at  the  widening  rings  of  purple  that 
were  forming  round  each  bite.  “It's  a  funny  thing,”  she  said,  “how  our 
fears  shift  from  one  thing  to  another.  In  the  beginning  I  worried  over  what 
would  happen  if  one  of  us  should  break  a  leg — that  seemed  to  be  the  worst 
thing  that  could  happen.  If  we  survive  this  ordeal  I’ll  never  be  afraid  of 
anything  again.” 

“Yes,”  I  agreed,  “we  are  so  busy  being  afraid  of  what  may  happen 
that  we  seldom  think  about  the  real  danger.  From  now  on  let’s  forget  what 
will  happen  to  us  if — ?  Let’s  go  downstream;  there  may  be  some  place 
there  we  can  find.” 

Our  search  downstream  was  rewarded.  A  large,  flat  rock  extending  well 
out  into  the  water  could  easily  be  coverted  into  an  island  by  a  little  digging 
on  the  mainland  side.  But  there  was  another  problem.  Could  we  erect  the 
tent  on  it  to  protect  ourselves  against  the  innumerable  flying  insects?  It 
seemed  possible  that  by  taking  our  time  and  working  slowly,  we  could 
build  a  platform  of  limbs  and  palm  branches  on  which  to  set  it. 


222  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

All  day  we  worked  at  the  task  of  finding  and  transporting  the  necessary 
materials.  We  had  to  watch  every  movement,  weigh  every  step.  Our  heads 
pounded  and  ached  until  it  seemed  that  our  eyes  would  pop  out  of  their 
sockets.  Our  bodies  were  bathed  in  perspiration,  which  in  turn  caused  an 
intolerable  itching.  The  purple  bruises  were  now  about  three-quarters  of 
an  inch  in  diameter,  and  almost  covered  us.  By  sundown  we  had  accom¬ 
plished  our  purpose  and  had  erected  the  mended  tent  on  a  small  palm- 
covered  platform  where  we  would  be  safe  from  insects. 

Days  of  careful,  methodical,  and  tortured  existence  followed.  One  of  us 
always  kept  guard  while  the  other  slept,  watching  every  movement  of  the 
sleeper,  that  he  might  not  break  a  blister  by  tossing,  turning,  or  scratching. 
We  relieved  the  tedium  by  laughing  at  the  restraints  and  compulsions  of 
the  situation — “every  little  movement"  was  so  fraught  with  meaning,  that 
we  didn't  dare  even  to  slap  at  a  mosquito. 

Our  diet  during  the  first  period  of  our  convalescence  was  composed  of 
the  reserve  rations  that  we  had  brought  along.  We  ate  nothing  but  boiled 
rice,  corn,  and  beans.  But  as  the  poison  left  our  systems  we  became  raven¬ 
ously  hungry  for  fresh  meat,  and  hunted  for  wild  turkey,  wild  chicken,  and 
doves.  There  were  no  other  animals  in  the  canyon,  since  they  cannot  sur¬ 
vive  in  talaje  country. 

The  blisters  gradually  dried  and  healed.  They  left  scabs  which  remained 
for  some  time  longer,  but  we  were  able  to  travel  in  about  two  weeks.  The 
last  few  days  before  our  departure  we  spent  preparing  food  for  the  trail 
ahead.  On  one  of  the  ridges  above  the  canyon  I  had  shot  a  deer,  and  this 
gave  us  a  much  needed  supply  of  dried  meat. 

We  left  that  last  fateful  camp  of  Diaz's  army  with  a  new  attitude.  Our 
egotism  was  left  behind,  together  with  a  goodly  supply  of  over-confidence 
and  self-assurance.  Man  may  be  lord  of  all  he  surveys  in  some  places — 
but  he  isn't  in  the  jungle.  It  is  easy  to  see  why  races  that  have  successfully 
maintained  themselves  in  the  equatorial  jungles  have  never  been  individ¬ 
ualists  in  the  Western  meaning  of  the  term.  Only  men  who  are  group¬ 
conscious  can  survive. 

Two  days'  journey  from  the  talaje  camp  brought  us  to  the  headwaters 
of  the  stream  we  had  been  following.  We  climbed  the  high  ridge  to  the 
west  and  dropped  down  into  a  great  valley.  Fresh  machete  marks  which 
must  have  been  made  within  a  period  of  six  months  filled  us  with  curiosity. 
Carefully  we  followed  the  trail  through  the  thick  growth,  looking  for  the 
stumps  and  blaze  marks  on  the  trees.  But  there  was  one  thing  about  those 
blaze  marks  that  filled  us  with  astonishment — they  all  faced  the  trail\  We 
looked  at  each  other  in  amazement.  We  were  following  the  trail  of  a  green¬ 
horn!  But  how  had  he  come  this  far?  An  experienced  traveller  would  have 
blazed  the  tree  on  both  sides  so  that  the  blazes  could  be  seen  going  up  or 
coming  down  the  trail.  “And  have  you  noticed  how  all  the  machete  marks 


The  Forbidden  Land  223 

slant  the  same  way?"  Ginger  observed.  "Whoever  went  up  the  trail  did 
not  return  this  way." 

We  were  certain  that  it  had  been  made  by  a  white  man  because  it  led 
directly  through  stinging  bushes  that  any  native  would  have  avoided.  Our 
interest  heightened  as  we  followed  this  amateur's  trail.  Late  in  the  after¬ 
noon  it  brought  us  to  an  extensive  flat  and  to  the  banks  of  a  river  where 
we  found  a  small  thatched  shelter.  We  approached  it  cautiously,  but  it  was 
silent  and  deserted.  We  threw  off  our  packs  and  prowled  round,  trying  to 
read  the  story. 

It  had  been  constructed  during  the  present  dry  season  by  some  one  only 
slightly  familiar  with  the  jungle,  for  it  was  so  close  to  the  water’s  edge 
that  it  would  have  been  carried  away  by  high  water.  The  thatching  came 
all  the  way  to  the  ground.  No  native  would  have  done  this,  for  it  gave 
crawling  things  an  opportunity  to  get  into  the  thatching  and  drop  on  the 
occupant.  The  builder  had  some  knowledge  of  jungle  animals,  however, 
for  heavy  tiger  bars  guarded  both  ends.  We  stepped  inside.  It  was  plainly 
the  camp  of  a  white  man.  He  had  built  a  rough  wooden  bunk  in  one  corner. 
Pieces  of  equipment  lay  scattered  on  the  floor — a  rusty  knife,  fork,  spoon, 
enamelled  plate,  what  was  left  of  a  pair  of  blankets,  and  a  worn  out  pair 
of  hobnailed  boots. 

Then  we  made  a  momentous  discovery.  In  a  mildewed  pack  under  the 
bunk  were  a  few  cans  of  food.  All  of  them  were  rusted  through  with  the 
exception  of  one  can  of  milk,  which,  though  rusted  all  over,  was  still  intact. 
This  was  a  bonanza  of  the  first  order — the  occasion  for  a  fiesta.  We  decided 
to  have  it  the  following  day,  and  in  the  meantime  to  clean  out  the  hut, 
erect  our  tent  in  it,  and  see  if  we  could  find  out  more  about  its  missing 
occupant. 

As  we  cleaned  the  hut  we  examined  every  little  clue  that  might  show 
who  the  man  was,  why  he  had  come  here,  and  what  had  become  of  him. 
It  was  evident  that  he  had  not  died  near  the  hut,  for  his  gun  and  machete 
were  missing.  After  we  had  the  place  in  order,  we  had  a  light  meal  and 
turned  in,  for  we  were  very  tired. 

About  midnight  I  wakened  out  of  a  sound  sleep,  startled  by  something, 
but  by  what  I  did  not  know.  I  immediately  woke  Ginger,  and  together  we 
listened.  The  only  sound  was  the  beat  of  heavy  rain  upon  the  thatching. 
There  was  nothing  unusual  in  that,  for  this  was  the  beginning  of  the  rainy 
season.  Nevertheless,  something  was  decidedly  wrong.  We  got  up,  dressed, 
and  built  a  fire.  My  uneasy  feeling  persisted  although  there  was  no  logical 
explanation  for  it;  so  we  strapped  on  our  gun  belts,  stuffed  our  pockets 
with  extra  ammunition,  and  went  out  in  the  rain  to  look  round.  The  only 
result  was  a  good  soaking. 

As  I  built  up  the  fire  to  dry  out  our  wet  clothing,  Ginger  also  became 
uneasy.  "I’ve  got  a  hunch,"  she  said,  "that  we  had  better  pack  up  and 
get  out  of  here." 


224  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

That  made  it  unanimous,  and  we  began  collecting  our  things.  While  we 
were  taking  the  tent  down,  we  heard  a  roar  from  up  the  river,  followed  by 
the  sound  of  falling  trees.  Then  we  knew — the  crest  of  the  first  flood  of  the 
rainy  season  was  on  its  way.  We  hastily  gathered  up  what  gear  we  could 
carry,  and  stumbled  along  in  the  darkness  towards  a  little  hill  that  rose 
about  fifty  yards  behind  the  hut.  When  we  returned  for  the  balance  of  the 
equipment,  six  inches  of  water  swirled  round  the  shelter. 

At  last  we  stood  in  the  rain  on  the  little  hill  with  all  our  possessions  be¬ 
side  us,  listening  to  the  roar  of  the  water  and  the  thunderous  crashing  of 
the  great  trees.  We  both  shivered  a  little  as  we  thought  of  our  near  escape. 
“Well,  we  at  least  have  a  can  of  milk,”  Ginger  said  philosophically. 

“Did  you  bring  it?”  I  asked. 

“Why,  no,”  she  replied.  “I  thought  I  saw  you  pick  it  up.” 

We  had  failed  to  bring  our  precious  can  of  milk!  Together  we  started 
off  down  the  hill.  Half-way  to  the  hut  the  water  was  already  knee-deep; 
it  was  obvious  that  we  couldn't  reach  it  on  foot.  I  was  determined  to  have 
one  last  try  for  it,  however,  so  telling  Ginger  to  wait  for  me,  I  went  back 
to  the  hill  and  secured  the  sixty-foot  lariat.  Working  our  way  from  tree 
to  tree,  we  reached  the  little  clearing  round  the  hut.  The  angry  waters 
were  tearing  its  thatch  away,  but  it  still  stood.  I  tied  one  end  of  the  lariat 
round  my  waist  while  Ginger  fastened  the  other  end  to  a  stout  sapling. 
At  first  she  protested  vigorously,  telling  me  that  I  would  be  drowned, 
but  she  was  tying  the  line  round  the  tree  as  she  talked.  She  wanted  that 
can  of  milk  as  much  as  I  did. 

Throwing  my  weight  against  the  swirling  water,  I  worked  upstream, 
seeking  what  little  shelter  the  trees  offered.  A  sharp  tug  on  the  rope  soon 
indicated  that  I  had  reached  the  end  of  the  line.  With  a  silent  prayer  that 
the  rope  would  be  long  enough,  I  swung  out  in  an  arc  towards  the  hut. 
The  water  knocked  me  off  my  feet,  and  I  just  managed  to  grab  one  of  the 
tiger  bars.  The  hut  shook  uneasily  as  I  reached  inside  and  groped  round  in 
the  bunk  for  the  can.  My  hand  closed  round  its  rusted  surface,  and  I  had 
only  time  to  turn  and  shout  to  Ginger  to  pull  on  the  line  before  the  shelter 
gave  way  and  whirled  off  down  the  stream.  I  hung  on  to  the  can  as  the 
rush  of  water  washed  me  into  the  undergrowth  at  the  edge  of  the  clearing, 
where  I  managed  to  regain  my  footing.  While  Ginger  tugged  on  the  rope, 
I  worked  my  way  along  by  pulling  on  the  bushes.  Even  with  her  help  it  was 
all  I  could  do  to  work  my  way  against  the  strong  current  to  where  she 
stood  in  water  almost  to  her  armpits.  Together  we  fought  the  storm  and 
regained  the  safety  of  the  hillside. 

As  we  sat  in  the  rain,  trying  to  catch  our  breath,  Ginger  said,  “I  won¬ 
der  sometimes  if  we  have  good  sense.  Here  we  are,  a  hundred  miles  from 
nowhere,  and  we  risk  our  necks  for  a  can  of  milk.  It  sounds  foolish.” 

“Well,  men  risk  their  necks  for  gold,”  I  said  defensively,  “and  right 
now  I  would  rather  have  this  can  of  milk,  wouldn't  you?” 


The  Forbidden  hand 


225 


A  fire  seemed  highly  desirable  at  this  point,  so  we  began  to  scout  round 
for  firewood.  Very  quickly  we  found  that  we  were  not  the  only  occupants 
of  the  little  hill.  All  the  small  walking  and  crawling  things  in  the  valley 
were  sharing  it  with  us.  It  was  anything  but  pleasant  to  feel  round  in  the 
darkness  for  wood,  but  at  last  we  found  a  small  log,  and  cutting  off  a  sec¬ 
tion  of  it,  dragged  it  back  to  camp.  We  made  a  shelter  of  the  tent  and, 
crawling  under  it,  set  about  the  task  of  chopping  in  the  dark  without  cut¬ 
ting  off  our  fingers.  Everything  was  too  saturated  for  us  to  light  a  fire  in 
the  usual  way,  so  we  made  a  fireblock.  The  wet  wood  was  trimmed  off' the 
outside  of  the  log  to  its  dry  centre.  Then  while  Ginger  made  a  spindle  and 
bow,  I  fashioned  the  friction  block,  and  scraped  enough  wood  fibre  for 
tinder.  Soon  we  were  sitting  round  a  cheerful  fire  and  beginning  to  enjoy 
ourselves. 

At  daylight  we  found  a  more  comfortable  camp  site  upstream.  There 
we  dried  out  our  bedraggled  equipment,  and  prepared  a  banquet  with  the 
can  of  milk  for  the  piece  de  resistance.  The  menu  was  L  roiled  breast  of 
turkey,  turkey  stew,  and  cream  flavoured  with  coffee. 

For  three  more  days  we  toiled  up  this  canyon,  crossing  and  recrossing 
the  swollen  river.  There  were  many  moments  of  suspense  as  we  made  our 
way  along  precipitous  rock  ledges,  or  climbed  the  steep  mountain  sides 
when  falls  and  rapids  made  progress  below  impossible.  This  was  virgin 
country,  for  there  were  no  indications  that  any  one  had  ever  been  here 
before.  On  the  fourth  day  we  arrived  at  a  parklike  flat  shaded  by  giant 
trees.  Long  vines  trailed  along  the  ground  from  the  branches  overhead, 
and  birds  with  gorgeous  plumage  flew  among  the  foliage.  The  scene  re¬ 
sembled  an  exotic  motion-picture  setting  for  "Tarzan  of  the  Apes/' 

The  thought  must  have  occurred  to  Ginger  the  moment  she  saw  it,  for 
she  dropped  her  pack  and  ran  across  the  clearing  shouting,  "I'm  Tarzan!" 
She  grabbed  one  of  the  trailing  lianas  and  took  off  in  a  beautiful  apeman 
swing.  The  result  of  this  manoeuvre  in  no  way  resembled  Johnny  Weis¬ 
muller's  dashing  progress  from  tree  to  tree.  There  was  a  crackling  of  dead 
wood  as  she  landed  in  a  heap  with  the  vine  coiled  over  her  head.  I  howled 
with  laughter  at  her  expression  of  disgust  as  she  crawled  out  from  beneath 
the  tangled  debris.  "I  never  did  like  Tarzan,  anyway,"  she  sputtered. 

Though  the  place  proved  disappointing  as  a  practice  ground  for  apeman 
activities,  it  was  an  ideal  base  camp.  We  spent  ten  days  here  building  a 
substantial  shelter,  well  above  the  high-water  mark  of  the  river,  and  pre¬ 
paring  food  for  our  journey  into  the  interior.  There  was  an  enchantment 
about  the  place  that  grew  with  each  day.  Great  banyan  and  Leche  Maria 
trees  spread  canopied  branches  overhead.  Fern  palms  and  many  varieties 
of  broad  leaved  plants  edged  the  clearing  on  three  sides.  On  the  open  side 
the  river  flowed  through  a  lane  of  fantastic  tropic  vegetation.  The  jungle 
and  the  river  formed  an  amphitheatre  of  green  against  whose  sombre  back¬ 
ground  the  brilliant  flowers,  birds,  and  butterflies  stood  out  in  high  relief. 


226 


Enchanted  Vagabonds 

When  the  hut  was  completed  we  fastened  over  the  door  with  much 
ceremony  a  carved  sign  reading,  “Base  Camp."  The  next  thing  was  to 
secure  the  food  supply.  We  smoked  and  dried  venison  and  turkey,  and 
collected  and  prepared  wild  coffee,  yuca  roots,  and  nuts  from  the  coquito 
palm. 

This  palm  is  probably  man's  best  friend  in  the  higher  jungle  country.  It 
is  a  small  tree  with  a  slender  bole  which  grows  only  in  shaded  sections, 
and  is  well  protected  by  thorns.  The  nuts  hang  in  small,  thorny  clusters 
among  the  lower  branches  and  are  about  the  size  of  walnuts.  The  meat 
tastes  like  a  coco-nut  and  is  very  oily.  The  creamy  white  blossoms,  which 
grow  in  compact  clusters,  resemble  broccoli  and  are  good  to  eat.  The  heart 
of  the  palm  is  also  edible  and  tastes  like  cabbage.  The  nuts  are  dried  and 
the  oil  is  rendered  out  for  cooking.  Its  branches  make  excellent  thatching 
for  huts. 

“Base  Camp"  was  to  be  a  store  house  for  our  extra  rations,  filled  with 
enough  corn,  beans,  and  rice  to  see  us  out  of  the  country  in  the  event  of  an 
accident  or  illness.  By  making  horseshoe  packs  out  of  the  tent  and  sleeping 
bag,  we  could  also  leave  one  of  the  knapsacks  behind.  In  this  we  left  our 
native  clothes,  extra  sandals,  travelling  papers,  exposed  films,  and  enough 
food  for  an  emergency.  To  prevent  animals  and  insects  from  reaching  the 
stores,  we  took  one  of  Ginger’s  kettle  chains  and  suspended  it  in  the 
smoke  of  the  fire  until  it  was  covered  with  creosote.  Then  we  hung  the 
packsack  from  one  of  the  rafters  with  it.  As  an  added  precaution  we  kept 
a  smudge  fire  burning  when  we  were  not  using  the  hut,  until  even  the 
thatching  had  a  liberal  coating  of  creosote. 

In  addition  to  these  physical  preparations,  we  gave  careful  thought  to  the 
nature  of  the  country  before  us.  This  territory  could  not  be  traversed  in 
the  leisurely  fashion  of  the  men  who  walk,  clad  in  full  tropical  regalia 
through  the  parklike  avenues  of  motion  picture  sets.  There  were  no  trails 
except  game  trails,  and  these  were  so  low  that  one  had  to  bend  almost 
double  to  negotiate  them.  The  ground  was  thickly  covered  with  rotting 
debris  and  undergrowth,  the  home  of  crawling  pests.  In  order  to  cut  a 
path  through  this  solid  mass  of  vegetation,  the  machete  must  be  razor- 
keen.  A  dull  blade  jars  the  growth  overhead,  and  sends  cascades  of  stinging 
insects  down  one's  neck.  Each  plant  has  a  method  of  protection  that  can 
spell  disaster  to  the  unwary. 

Neither  is  the  physical  labour  of  swinging  a  machete  hour  after  hour  any¬ 
thing  to  discount.  There  is  a  technique  to  this.  Two  slashes  cut  off  the 
growth  just  above  the  ground.  Then  two  more  strokes,  high  above  the 
head  and  as  far  in  front  as  you  can  reach,  drop  the  whole  tangled  mass  of 
vegetation  into  the  trail  below.  The  dense  wall  of  green  prevents  your 
kicking  this  aside,  so  it  is  necessary  to  walk  over  it.  As  a  result  your  feet 
seldom  touch  the  ground.  Frequent  stops  must  be  made  at  regular  intervals 


The  Forbidden  hand  227 

to  pick  off  the  accumulation  of  insects  which  seem  well  supplied  with 
grappling  hooks. 

In  addition,  there  are  hundreds  of  varieties  of  fungus  growths,  moulds, 
bacteria,  and  parasites.  Some  are  harmful,  others  are  not;  but  they  all  play 
a  definite  part  in  the  scheme  of  things.  Many  have  specialized  functions 
which  lay  the  ground  work  for  the  whole  vast,  intricate  panorama  of  jungle 
life.  The  termites  ceaselessly  clean  up  fallen  trees  and  pave  the  way  for 
new  growth.  Some  of  them  are  aided  by  minute  living  organisms.  One 
species  of  termite  eats  the  wood,  which  is  re-eaten  by  a  protozoa  which 
lives  in  the  termite's  stomach.  The  termite  does  not  subsist  on  the  original 
wood  pulp  but  on  the  excretions  of  the  protozoa.  The  soil  is  in  turn  fer¬ 
tilized  by  the  excrement  of  the  termite. 

Another  little  insect  which  assists  the  termite  bores  in  underneath  the 
bark  of  the  fallen  tree  and  there  deposits  its  eggs  with  the  spores  of  a  tiny 
fungus  growth.  By  the  time  the  eggs  have  hatched,  the  fungus,  which  grows 
in  the  form  of  minute  asparagus,  is  well  established.  The  fungus  feeds  upon 
the  cells  of  the  wood,  and  the  young  insects  feed  upon  the  asparagus,  much 
as  a  cow  would  feed  upon  alfalfa. 

We  wondered  what  would  happen  if  the  delicate  equilibrium  between 
the  forces  of  growth  and  destruction  were  thrown  out  of  balance  in  any 
way.  Besides  the  multiplicity  of  living  forms  round  us  we  felt  small  and 
insignificant.  Our  only  chance  of  being  able  to  enjoy  the  jungle’s  prodigali  ty 
and  splendour  depended  upon  our  ability  to  fit  ourselves  into  its  complicated 
life  pattern.  This  was  as  much  a  mental  operation  as  it  was  a  physical 
adaptation.  Since  bodily  comfort  was  out  of  the  question,  its  importance 
had  to  be  discounted.  It  was  possible,  by  an  effort  of  will,  not  to  think 
continuously  of  our  bruises,  abrasions,  and  bites.  Otherwise  the  jungle 
would  soon  have  made  us  both  into  hypochondriacs. 

One  of  the  things  that  we  found  reinforced  our  morale  was  our  personal 
appearance.  Ever  since  leaving  the  talaje  camp  we  had  been  in  constant 
pain  and  had  grown  careless.  Ginger  had  let  her  hair  grow  down  over  her 
forehead  as  a  protection  against  insects,  and  I  had  let  my  whiskers  grow 
for  the  same  reason.  We  decided  to  make  a  right-about  face.  From  then  on, 
we  both  groomed  ourselves  to  the  limits  of  our  slender  resources.  The  re¬ 
sult  was  an  increased  sense  of  well-being  which  more  than  repaid  us  for 
the  effort. 

One  night  shortly  before  we  left  “Base  Camp’’  Ginger  said,  “Dan,  I 
wonder  if  we  aren’t  going  to  have  a  difficult  time  fitting  into  civilization 
when  we  return  home?  If  it’s  all  right  with  you,  I’d  like  to  go  back  for  a 
couple  of  months  after  we  have  finished  our  trip.  If  we  don't  like  it  we 
can  start  out  again.’’ 

In  a  sense  I  was  also  curious,  but  I  felt  that  I  knew  what  the  answer 
would  be.  Men  who  have  left  cities  for  any  length  of  time  are  seldom 
happy  in  them  again. 


228  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

At  last  we  were  off,  after  making  a  careful  last  minute  recheck  of  all  our 
supplies  and  equipment.  Ahead  of  us  loomed  a  great  canyon,  and  we  set 
our  course  in  its  direction.  Once  on  the  trail,  we  fought  for  every  inch  of 
ground  that  we  gained.  The  south-east  course  of  the  river  led  us  for  day3 
through  a  mighty  gorge  flanked  by  sheer  limestone  cliffs.  Then  it  changed 
its  direction  and  turned  at  a  sharp  right  angle  to  plough  through  a  great 
crevasse — a  fault  line  in  a  schist  formation — emerging  to  follow  again  its 
channel  along  the  base  of  towering  limestone  escarpments.  Tributary  riv¬ 
ers  plunged  over  the  cliffs  in  vertical,  breath-taking  cataracts  into  deep 
pools  cut  out  of  the  solid  rock  of  the  river  bed  below.  The  roar  of  the 
water  echoed  back  and  forth  between  the  gigantic  sounding  boards  of  the 
canyon’s  walls  until  our  ears  were  deafened. 

Progress  up  the  canyon  was  slow  and  difficult.  There  were  days  when 
we  advanced  only  a  mile  or  two,  although  we  travelled  many  miles  to  gain 
that  slight  distance.  Falls  blocked  our  way  in  many  places  and  we  were 
forced  to  scale  the  slippery,  water-worn  surfaces  that  flanked  them  by  con¬ 
structing  ladders  of  long  poles  lashed  together  with  tough  vines.  At  other 
times  it  was  necessary  to  climb  the  steep  sides  of  the  canyon.  Going  up  was 
not  so  difficult  as  coming  down.  To  get  back  to  the  canyon  floor  we  braided 
long  ropes  of  bejuco ,  fastened  them  to  trees  or  round  a  rock  on  the  canyon’s 
rim,  and  lowered  ourselves  over  the  cliffs  that  formed  its  sides.  Where  the 
overhanging  walls  enclosed  deep  pools,  we  constructed  rafts  from  saplings 
lashed  together  with  vines,  and  poled  ourselves  past  the  barrier.  Some 
nights  we  spent  in  caves.  Other  nights  we  slept  among  huge  piles  of 
boulders.  Our  bodies  became  battered  and  bruised  from  rough  treatment. 

But  the  satisfaction  we  achieved  was  worth  the  price.  Each  handicap  that 
we  were  able  to  overcome  represented  more  than  a  physical  triumph  over 
environment.  Without  question  we  gained  a  certain  psychological  freedom 
that  widened  the  radius  of  our  ability  to  act — a  release  from  the  self- 
imposed  limitations  of  fear  and  doubt. 

At  last  we  emerged  upon  a  second  flat  or  mesa.  It  was  not  as  large  as 
the  one  at  “Base  Camp,”  but  it  more  than  made  up  in  colour  and  variety 
what  it  lacked  in  size.  Here,  owing  to  the  higher  elevation,  the  bird  and 
insect  life,  as  well  as  the  vegetation,  differed  from  that  below.  The  flower¬ 
ing  plants,  and  notably  the  insects,  were  of  brilliant  and  more  vivid  hues. 
Even  the  mosquitoes  were  a  bright  gun-metal  blue. 

Unfortunately  we  are  not  entomologists,  and  can  describe  only  in  non¬ 
technical  terms  the  appearance  of  some  of  these  extraordinary  insects. 
Many  of  them  may  be  unknown  to  science,  for  we  saw  them  only  in  the 
highlands.  There  was  one,  perhaps  an  inch  in  length,  shaped  like  a  shield, 
whose  back  had  an  intricate  design  in  powder  blue  and  orange.  Another, 
which  we  called  the  “Gold  Bug,”  was  an  ovoid  about  an  inch  and  a  quarter 
long.  It  was  like  an  iridescent  jewel,  with  opalescent  tints  superimposed 
upon  a  background  of  glittering  copperish  gold.  There  was  a  long,  slender, 


The  Forbidden  Land 


229 


joined  insect  of  a  beautiful,  translucent  grass-green,  which  made  its  home 
among  grasses  so  similar  in  construction  to  itself  that  it  was  almost  im¬ 
possible  to  detect  its  presence  unless  it  moved.  It  was  not  more  than  a 
quarter  of  an  inch  in  diameter,  but  it  was  four  inches  long!  One  bug,  which 
lived  among  fallen  leaves,  hopped  instead  of  walked.  Since  it  looked  ex¬ 
actly  like  a  fallen  leaf  in  shape,  colour,  and  size,  it  could  be  detected  only 
by  accident.  Grasshoppers  were  gaily  dressed  in  green,  red  and  black,  and 
brown  and  red.  An  insect  similar  to  a  grasshopper  in  its  general  appear¬ 
ance,  although  fully  two  inches  long,  had  a  dark  brown  body  and  wings, 
and  under  wings  of  fine,  transparent,  veined  red.  There  were  insects  that 
looked  like  bits  of  fallen  bark.  As  a  general  rule,  all  of  them  blended  per¬ 
fectly  with  their  environment. 

The  butterflies  were  miracles  of  protective  colouration  as  well  as  beauty. 
And  the  orchids,  not  to  be  outdone,  resembled  butterflies.  The  most  gor¬ 
geous  of  the  butterflies  dwelt  in  the  deeper  jungle.  It  was  an  ultramarine 
blue  with  a  delicate  Persian-like  scrollwork  on  the  underside  of  its  wings. 
There  were  black  butterflies  with  tailed  hind  wings,  which  seemed  to  be 
made  of  cut  black  velvet  trimmed  with  red.  There  were  white,  apple-green, 
gold,  orange,  yellow,  and  blue  butterflies,  and  others  in  all  combinations 
of  these  colours. 

There  was  so  much  that  was  new  to  us  that  we  hiked  round  a  bit  be¬ 
fore  we  made  camp  on  a  beautiful  site  near  the  river.  It  was  time  for 
supper  and  while  Ginger  collected  twigs  for  a  fire,  I  went  out  to  gather 
larger  wood.  I  had  gone  a  short  distance  when  I  heard  the  sound  of  a 
breaking  limb,  and  turned  in  time  to  see  Ginger  whirl  and  draw  her  gun. 
I  reached  for  the  Luger  and  peered  into  the  underbrush.  “What’s  the 
matter?”  I  called. 

“Some  one  just  hit  me  on  the  head,”  she  answered.  “I  thought  a  native 
had  sneaked  up  behind  me.” 

Just  as  I  finished  assuring  her  that  she  must  have  been  mistaken,  another 
stick  hurtled  through  the  air  and  landed  at  her  feet.  We  looked  up  into 
the  trees  and  into  the  face  of  a  spider  monkey  who  was  swinging  by  his 
tail  and  grimacing  at  us.  In  our  relief,  we  teased  the  little  fellow  by  making 
faces  and  jabbering  at  him.  The  monkey,  however,  didn't  like  our  mockery, 
and  began  to  emit  ear-splitting  shrieks  as  he  jumped  up  and  down  on  a 
limb,  showering  us  with  twigs,  leaves,  and  branches.  In  a  moment  monkeys 
from  far  and  near  took  up  his  refrain.  The  jungle  reverberated  with  their 
angry  cries.  Suddenly  they  began  to  converge  on  our  camp  site  from  all 
directions,  rushing  to  the  defence  of  their  brother.  We  were  unfamiliar 
with  the  habits  of  spider  monkeys  or  we  would  have  been  more  cautious. 
As  it  was,  they  sprayed  us  thoroughly  before  we  could  seek  the  safety  of 
the  river.  We  took  a  good  scrubdown  in  the  stream,  and  decided  to  call 
the  place  “ Monkey ville,”  although  Ginger  held  out  quite  a  while  for 


230  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

“Rainville”  (which  was  a  pretty  way  of  saying  it).  We  discovered,  how¬ 
ever,  that  if  we  left  the  monkeys  alone  they  behaved  decently. 

We  constructed  another  thatched  hut  in  " Monkey vi lie' '  and  collected 
more  food  for  the  trail.  A  preliminary  survey  indicated  that  the  route  ahead 
would  be  even  more  difficult  to  negotiate.  In  hopes  of  finding  an  easier 
passage  into  the  interior,  we  climbed  to  the  summit  of  a  great  peak.  From 
this  vantage  point  we  discovered  that  the  whole  country  was  laid  out  in  a 
series  of  great  stairsteps,  set  at  an  angle.  Some  of  the  cliffs  on  the  face  of 
the  steps  appeared  to  be  a  thousand  feet  high.  There  was  no  route  open 
to  us  except  the  canyon,  however.  For  our  next  goal,  we  decided  on  a 
great  limestone  half-dome  in  the  far  distance.  Beyond  the  dome  the  ap¬ 
pearance  of  the  country  seemed  to  change. 

Four  days  of  travelling  brought  us  to  the  base  of  the  dome.  We  made 
camp  near  its  foot  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  river.  As  we  explored  the 
territory  near-by  we  came  to  the  entrance  of  a  limestone  cave.  Since  caves 
had  always  been  our  special  weakness  we  decided  to  investigate  this  one. 
Upon  a  ridge  we  secured  some  pitch  pine  for  torches.  We  split  the  wood 
into  strips  about  four  feet  long  and  bound  them  together.  One  such  torch 
will  last  over  half  an  hour.  Armed  with  as  many  as  we  could  carry,  we 
set  out  to  explore  the  cavern. 

None  of  the  caves  we  had  seen  during  our  trip  had  prepared  us  for  the 
beauty  of  this  one.  We  spent  several  hours  on  our  first  visit  wandering 
in  the  great  room  near  its  entrance,  gazing  at  the  fantastic  forms  and 
colourations.  The  torches  flickered  upon  the  glistening  surfaces  of  the  gi¬ 
gantic  stalactites  that  hung  from  its  ceiling.  The  years  that  went  into  the 
creation  of  the  great  stalagmites  rising  from  its  floor  stunned  the  imagina¬ 
tion. 

On  our  next  visit,  loaded  with  armfuls  of  torches,  we  started  out  to  ex¬ 
plore  its  labyrinthine  passages.  One  great  room  opened  into  another, 
equally  dazzling  in  the  variety  and  beauty  of  its  formations.  There  were 
enormous  altars,  glittering  icebergs,  Chinese  pagodas,  alabaster  urns,  pipe 
organs  no  building  made  by  man  could  house,  and  crystal  chandeliers 
weighing  tons,  whose  diamond  facets  shimmered  in  the  light.  We  soon 
realized  that  it  would  take  weeks  to  survey  the  cavern  more  than  casually, 
so  we  decided  to  retrace  our  steps.  It  was  round  noon  when  we  began  the 
return  journey,  which  we  estimated  would  take  about  two  hours.  Hunger 
speeded  our  footsteps  as  we  went  along.  As  hours  passed  and  no  glimmer 
of  light  revealed  the  entrance,  it  was  obvious  that  somewhere  we  had  turned 
in  the  wrong  direction,  but  when?  Had  the  mistake  occurred  at  the  outset? 
It  was  also  obvious  that  the  seepage  of  water  which  had  deposited  the  lime 
on  the  stalactites  for  at  least  one  hundred  and  fifty  million  years  had  in  all 
probability  undermined  an  area  many  square  miles  in  extent. 

The  only  thing  to  do  was  to  follow  the  pitch  pine  droppings  back  to  the 
place  from  which  we  had  started  the  return  journey,  and  to  leave  other 


The  Forbidden  hand 


231 


markers  as  we  went  along,  so  that  we  would  not  follow  this  passage  a 
second  time.  We  hoped  that  once  back  at  the  starting-point  we  could  fol¬ 
low  the  droppings  that  we  had  left  as  we  came  in.  There  were  enough 
torches  left  to  last  for  about  ten  hours.  It  was  one  of  the  longest  days 
either  of  us  ever  spent,  but  luck  at  last  rewarded  our  efforts.  We  reached 
the  entrance  about  midnight,  and  once  again  drew  deep  breaths  of  fresh  air. 

Back  in  camp  and  hungry  as  bears,  we  sat  round  the  fire  enjoying  some 
toasted  jerky  and  parched  yaca  roots.  Ginger  said  speculatively,  “I'll  bet 
there's  gold  in  that  cave." 

"Sure  there  is,"  I  agreed  jokingly.  "Maybe  a  million  or  two." 

She  wanted  to  do  a  little  panning,  however,  so  the  next  morning  we 
went  back  armed  with  our  frying  pan,  plenty  of  torches,  and  a  cup  to  carry 
the  gold  in.  Neither  of  us  took  the  matter  seriously,  and  jested  about  the 
business  as  we  filled  the  pan  with  gravel  and  settled  ourselves  near  one  of 
the  many  pools  in  the  floor.  As  we  worked  the  gravel  off'  we  were  amazed 
at  the  amount  of  black  sand  in  the  pan.  Amazed,  however,  does  not  do 
justice  to  our  feelings  when  we  saw  by  the  aid  of  the  torchlight  the  glisten¬ 
ing  yellow  metal  that  hung  back  in  the  bottom  of  the  pan.  "It  must  be  iron 
pyrites,"  I  said.  "There  couldn’t  be  that  much  gold  in  one  little  pan  of 
gravel." 

We  scraped  the  metal  into  the  cup  and  continued  panning  for  several 
hours.  Then  we  carried  the  results  of  our  efforts  out  into  the  daylight. 
There  was  no  mistake  about  it.  It  was  gold!  Yet  somehow  the  discovery 
didn’t  excite  us  as  it  might  have  under  different  circumstances.  We  had 
done  without  money  for  so  long  that  it  had  lost  most  of  its  importance. 
Not  until  that  moment,  perhaps,  were  we  conscious  of  what  this  country 
had  done  to  us.  To  live  in  it  we  had  had  to  discard  old  values  and  acquire 
others.  The  fascination  and  mystery  of  the  country  itself  overshadowed 
and  minimized  the  discovery  of  gold. 

That  night  round  the  fire  we  discussed  the  situation.  Did  we  want  to 
abandon  the  trip  and  become  miners?  If  so,  we  ought  to  make  up  our 
minds  to  do  it  properly.  It  was  slow,  tedious  work  to  extract  the  metal  by 
using  our  mess-kit  pans  for  gold  pans.  The  thing  to  do  was  to  cut  timber, 
construct  a  sluice  box,  and  build  a  drag  to  haul  the  gravel  to  the  stream. 
It  would  preclude  doing  anything  else  for  a  long  time,  except  hunt  for  food. 
The  only  thing  we  needed  money  for  in  the  near  future  was  to  buy  our 
passage  home  from  Panama — if  we  ever  got  there.  So  we  decided  to  con¬ 
tinue  with  the  mess-kit  pan  until  we  had  at  least  that  much  gold.  Later  on, 
after  the  present  trip  was  over,  we  could  always  return  and  engage  in 
serious  mining  if  we  wanted  to. 

Our  lives  for  the  next  two  weeks  became  a  routine  of  foraging,  cooking, 
cutting  pitch  pine,  and  panning.  Each  afternoon  we  emerged  from  our 
treasure  cave  covered  from  head  to  toe  with  the  soot  of  the  torches.  We 
relieved  the  monotony  by  a  race  to  see  who  could  find  the  biggest  nugget 


2S2 


Enchanted  Vagabonds 

first.  Ginger  walked  off  with  the  honours  by  finding  a  nugget  as  big  as  her 
thumbnail.  We  often  stopped  to  examine  some  particularly  lovely  piece  of 
gold.  The  cave  itself  was  limestone,  but  on  one  side  the  schist  cut  into  it. 
The  gold  we  were  panning  had  apparently  been  washed  directly  out  of 
the  formation,  and  had  never  been  rolled  or  carried  any  distance  by  water. 
Ginger  found  a  beautiful  piece  that  resembled  German  script.  I  discovered 
one  in  the  form  of  a  pointing  hand. 

One  day  Ginger  said,  ‘'If  you  think  we  have  enough  money  to  pay  our 
passage  home,  let's  quit  and  go  exploring.  From  now  on  we  can  consider 
ourselves  millionaires  anyway.  We've  got  a  bank  full  of  gold  and  I'd  like 
to  see  any  one  try  and  find  it." 

So  we  stopped,  buried  what  metal  we  had,  and  drew  a  complicated  map 
of  its  location.  After  a  week  to  replenish  our  food  supply  we  were  again 
ready  to  be  off. 

If  the  road  to  "Monkeyville"  had  seemed  arduous  and  difficult  while 
we  toiled  over  it,  in  retrospect  it  became  an  ideal  highway.  For  the  coun¬ 
try  above  the  dome  was  broken  and  upended,  and  the  river  followed  a  tor¬ 
tuous  course  through  the  gigantic  strata  of  broken  limestone  and  schist. 
In  places  the  schist  was  shot  through  with  quartz  stringers;  in  others  the 
formation  was  broken  by  hard  rock.  From  the  many  evidences  of  mineral 
wealth,  it  would  have  been  a  prospector’s  paradise. 

We  clawed  and  scrambled  up  the  canyon  for  four  days.  Then  the  way 
became  impassable.  The  canyon  narrowed  down  to  a  deep  gorge  through 
which  the  water  roared  and  tumbled.  We  spent  two  days  trying  to  find  a 
way  over  the  cliffs  to  the  north,  before  we  abandoned  the  idea.  Only  a 
human  fly  could  have  found  toe  holds  on  their  sheer  vertical  faces.  A  ridge 
to  the  south  offered  a  possible  route  past  the  unscalable  limestone  barriers 
and  we  followed  along  its  crest  into  higher  country. 

Now  we  travelled  along  a  succession  of  pine-covered  ridges.  There  was 
little  game  and  we  lived  on  our  meagre  supply  of  corn  and  beans.  Unable 
to  find  any  streams,  we  secured  our  water  by  spreading  out  the  tent  to 
catch  the  rain — when  it  rained.  When  it  failed  to  rain,  we  shook  the  dew 
from  the  undergrowth  and  bushes  on  to  the  tent.  This  was  vile-tasting 
stuff  but  it  was  wet. 

Three  days  of  hard  climbing  brought  us  at  last  to  the  summit  of  a  high 
peak.  The  panorama  which  spread  out  below  and  before  us  was  breath¬ 
taking.  To  the  east  we  could  see  for  the  first  time  the  high  plateau  that  we 
were  attempting  to  reach.  Great  waterfalls  tumbled  down  the  sheer  cliffs 
that  formed  its  sides.  Between  us  and  that  gigantic  butte  lay  a  torn,  twisted 
country  that  looked  as  though  no  man  could  defy  its  impregnability.  It 
seemed  absolutely  impassable.  But  if  there  was  ever  a  place  to  which  a 
remnant  of  a  conquered  race  might  go  to  seek  sanctuary,  that  plateau  was 
assuredly  the  spot. 

We  sat  on  a  huge  granite  boulder  and  gazed  long  and  speculatively  at 


The  Forbidden  hand 


233 


those  badlands  through  which  we  would  have  to  find  a  way.  Ginger  sighed 
as  she  said,  “I  don't  see  how  we  can  do  it.  But  how  the  place  matches  the 
stories  about  it!  It's  certainly  'forbidding'  enough.” 

There  seemed  only  one  thing  to  do,  and  that  was  to  go  ahead  and  trust 
to  our  luck  and  ingenuity  to  see  us  through.  We  did  exactly  that.  Bare¬ 
headed  and  almost  bare-skinned — for  our  clothes  were  threadbare — we 
toiled  across  the  rocky  ground.  The  tropic  sun  beat  down  unmercifully, 
burning  our  skins  a  deep  mahogany.  The  rarefied  atmosphere  at  that  high 
altitude  had  us  gasping  for  breath.  The  small  amount  of  food  and  water 
that  we  consumed  fell  far  short  of  supplying  our  overtaxed  bodies.  Though 
our  feet  were  tough  and  calloused,  the  sharp  flintlike  rocks  cut  into  our 
flesh  through  the  holes  in  our  native  sandals.  To  complete  our  ruin,  the 
thorny  bushes  tore  away  our  few  remnants  of  clothes.  Under  these  condi¬ 
tions  travelling  became  impossible,  and  we  began  to  look  for  a  place 
where  we  could  rest  a  while  and  repair  the  damage. 

We  finally  worked  our  way  across  a  great  limestone  stairstep  towards 
the  rim  of  a  deep  canyon.  Below,  a  cascading  stream  was  surrounded  by 
lush  tropic  vegetation.  After  a  tedious  day  of  lowering  ourselves  down 
precipitous  cliffs  and  scrambling  along  dangerously  narrow  ledges,  we 
reached  bottom.  Here  the  jungle's  cupboard  was  wide  open.  Game  was 
plentiful.  Wild  fruits  and  edible  plants  grew  everywhere.  We  named  the 
place  “Paradise  Valley.” 

After  a  day's  rest  we  put  up  a  shelter  and  replenished  our  supply  of  food 
and  clothing.  A  word  seems  in  order  here  about  foraging  in  the  jungle. 
Notwithstanding  the  plenitude  of  material,  this  is  not  altogether  simple. 
Had  we  been  forced  to  secure  food  in  Paradise  Valley  at  the  outset  of  our 
trip  we  should  probably  have  starved  to  death.  Fruits,  nuts,  and  berries  do 
not  grow  in  plain  sight  on  every  bush.  Most  of  them  are  hidden,  or  grow 
in  inaccessible  places.  It  is  seldom  advisable  to  climb  trees,  for  they  are 
alive  with  ants.  But  a  forked  stick  fastened  to  a  long  pole,  or  a  sharpened 
boomerang  will  knock  the  fruit  down.  There  is  stiff  competition  among  the 
birds  and  monkeys  for  the  ripened  fruit,  so  it  must  be  picked  before  it  at¬ 
tracts  their  attention,  and  allowed  to  ripen  in  camp.  In  hunting  it  is  safe 
to  say  that  ten  animals  see  you  for  every  one  that  you  see.  The  odds  are 
always  against  the  hunter,  owing  to  the  animal's  keener  sense  of  hearing, 
sight,  and  smell.  Securing  food  in  the  jungle  soon  banishes  from  your  mind 
the  idea  that  the  world  owes  you  a  living.  Here,  as  elsewhere,  the  ratio 
of  return  is  about  equal  to  the  amount  of  industry  and  energy  you  are 
willing  to  spend.  You  can  starve,  or  live  in  comparative  luxury. 

Three  deer  supplied  us  with  meat,  which  we  cut  into  thin  strips  and  hung 
over  racks  near  a  smoky  fire  to  dry.  The  hides  we  buried  in  the  damp  earth, 
allowing  them  to  rot  just  enough  so  that  the  hair  could  be  easily  scraped 
off.  Rendering  out  the  marrow  of  the  leg  bones  gave  us  a  gun  oil  which, 


234  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

in  our  opinion,  is  far  superior  to  any  commercial  product  available  The 
sinews  and  intestines  were  cleaned  and  cured  to  use  as  lashings. 

While  the  hides  were  curing,  we  collected  large  quantities  of  coquito 
palm  nuts,  dyewood,  and  various  barks  that  contained  tannic  acid;  also  gum 
from  the  pitch  pines  and  the  fruit  and  roots  that  we  needed  for  food.  Then 
Ginger  busied  herself  drying  and  preparing  the  yuca  roots,  guavas,  wild 
figs,  zapotes ,  and  a  little  berry  similar  to  the  elderberry,  while  I  tanned  the 
hides. 

The  hides  were  first  trimmed,  then  given  a  good  scraping  to  remove 
any  fat  and  membrane  adhering  to  the  inside,  as  well  as  to  remove  the  hair 
from  the  outside.  Then  they  were  dipped  alternately  in  strong  solutions 
made  from  dyewood  and  bark,  and  finally  rubbed  with  a  mixture  of  ashes 
and  clay.  This  is  not  the  best  method  of  tanning  hides,  but  it  does  well 
enough  when  one  is  in  a  hurry.  This  process  completed,  the  hides  were 
placed  in  the  sun  and  saturated  with  a  dressing  made  from  coquito  oil, 
resin,  and  deer  fat.  This  was  the  tedious  part  of  the  job  and  required  hours 
of  rubbing,  but  when  it  was  finished  the  hides  were  soft  and  pliable  and 
quite  waterproof. 

Now  the  camp  was  turned  into  a  tailor  shop.  Ginger  cut  and  fitted  a 
short  skirt  for  herself  and  I  made  a  pair  of  shorts.  When  the  pieces  were 
cut  and  ready  to  sew,  we  placed  the  seams  side  by  side  and  cut  a  series  of 
small  holes  directly  opposite  each  other  all  the  way  down  the  seam.  The 
pieces  were  then  laced  together  with  thongs  made  from  the  left-over  scraps 
of  leather.  It  is  possible  to  cut  a  thong  six  or  eight  feet  long  from  a  small 
piece  of  leather  by  starting  to  cut  it  at  the  outside  edge,  cutting  round  and 
round  towards  the  centre  to  form  a  spiral.  Our  footwear  was  easy  to  make, 
being  merely  a  flat  piece  cut  to  fit  the  foot,  and  fitted  with  lashings  to  tie 
round  the  heel  and  over  the  toe. 

Our  work  was  finally  finished,  and  we  were  eager  to  push  on.  But  the 
only  way  open  to  us  lay  up  the  canyon,  for  we  could  not  scale  the  cliffs, 
even  though  we  had  come  down  them.  For  two  days  we  travelled  pleas¬ 
antly  along  the  banks  of  the  stream,  until  the  thousand-foot  canyon  walls 
began  to  close  in  to  form  a  narrow  gorge.  We  hunted  in  vain  for  a  way 
over  these  walls  to  the  pine  ridge  above.  Although  it  filled  us  with  mis¬ 
giving,  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  tackle  the  gorge. 

The  river  seemed  to  be  jealous  of  every  foot  of  space  between  its  great 
stone  ramparts.  We  hugged  the  face  of  the  cliffs  to  avoid  being  swept  off 
our  feet  by  the  swift  current.  Sometimes  the  way  led  us  through  little 
caves  made  by  old  watercourses,  sometimes  over  huge  boulders,  where 
we  slipped  and  slid  over  the  mossy,  water-worn  surfaces. 

The  afternoon  of  the  second  day  found  us  at  the  end  of  the  gorge,  in  a 
box  canyon  with  a  narrow  opening  through  which  the  river  plunged  in  a 
great  cataract.  The  overhanging  walls  seemed  about  to  topple  down  on  us. 
We  scanned  them  carefully  for  any  possible  means  of  egress.  To  one  side  a 


The  Forbidden  Land 


2  35 


high  waterfall  tumbled  down  into  a  deep  pool.  The  formation  near  the  top 
was  broken  into  ledges.  That  gave  us  an  idea,  and  we  retraced  our  steps 
down  the  canyon  to  see  if  there  was  a  ledge  that  we  could  climb  to,  and 
from  which  we  might  reach  the  broken  formation.  Finding  a  narrow  ledge 
that  might  be  negotiated  with  extreme  caution,  we  worked  our  way  along 
the  cliff  in  the  direction  of  the  waterfall.  When  we  reached  a  position  above 
the  pool  we  were  astonished  to  see  what  looked  like  a  hewn  pathway  cut 
into  the  face  of  the  rock  which  led  to  the  top  of  the  falls.  Whether  it  had 
been  cut  by  the  river  during  the  ages  when  the  canyon  was  in  the  process  of 
formation,  or  made  by  men,  it  was  impossible  to  tell.  But  after  all  our 
difficult  climbing  it  looked  like  an  easy  ascent.  I  said  to  Ginger,  as  I  stepped 
on  it,  “It's  going  to  be  a  cinch  to  reach  the  top  now." 

Then  for  no  reason  at  all  I  slipped,  lost  my  balance,  and  plunged  down 
into  the  pool  some  twenty  feet  below.  Weighted  down  by  my  pack  and 
gun  belt,  I  was  being  carried  swiftly  towards  the  rapids  at  the  foot  of  the 
pool  when  Ginger  threw  me  one  end  of  the  lariat.  With  her  aid  I  managed 
to  scramble  to  safety. 

We  spread  out  the  sodden  contents  of  my  pack  on  some  boulders  to 
dry,  and  again  started  up  the  trail.  Although  the  way  was  not  difficult  we 
took  no  chances  this  time,  and  carefully  helped  each  other  over  the  rough 
spots.  Nearing  the  top  of  the  falls,  we  heard  an  angry  warning  hiss.  Some¬ 
where  on  the  ledge,  just  above  our  heads,  a  rattler  lay  concealed.  I  tried 
to  dislodge  the  snake  by  shooting  at  it,  but  the  bullets  ricocheted  harm¬ 
lessly  off  the  intervening  ledge.  We  retreated  to  hold  council.  This  was 
the  only  possible  course  to  the  Great  Plateau — by  now  we  referred  to  it 
in  capitals— -and  the  hour  was  late  and  there  was  no  place  to  camp  in  the 
gorge.  What  to  do? 

I  swam  across  the  upper  end  of  the  pool,  my  purpose  being  to  shoot  the 
rattler  from  the  other  side.  However,  it  was  not  possible  to  get  high  enough 
to  see  it.  Abandoning  the  idea  of  leaving  the  gorge,  that  night  we  built  a 
fire  on  a  boulder  where  Ginger  prepared  supper.  Since  there  was  no  place 
to  set  the  tent  up,  we  picked  out  the  biggest,  softest,  flattest  rock  to 
sleep  on. 

Night  came  swiftly  in  the  gloomy  canyon,  bringing  with  it  an  almost 
overpowering  sense  of  imminent  danger.  We  sat  round  the  fire  and  talked 
of  the  long  series  of  coincidences  that  had  blocked  our  progress  in  this 
Forbidden  Land.  If  the  Indians'  Guardian  Spirits  had  actually  existed, 
they  could  hardly  have  done  a  better  job  of  trying  to  keep  us  out.  True, 
we  had  survived  the  talajes ,  the  flood,  the  cliffs,  and  a  lot  of  other  things, 
but  could  we  indefinitely  continue  to  do  so?  Even  the  snake  on  the  ledge 
began  to  assume  an  illogical  importance.  I  undoubtedly  had  tumbled  into 
the  pool  because  I  had  been  careless  and  overconfident.  The  talajes  had 
bitten  us  because  we  had  not  been  careful  enough  to  avoid  tearing  the  tent. 
Each  incident  had  been  the  result  of  our  own  failure  or  foolhardiness.  Nev- 


236 


Enchanted  Vagabonds 

ertheless,  we  were  unable  wholly  to  overcome  the  impact  of  the  country's 
history.  Throughout  the  night  we  frequently  wakened,  to  sit  up  and  talk 
about  what  lay  over  that  barrier  of  limestone  guarded  by  the  rattler. 

The  next  morning  we  cautiously  approached  the  place  where  the  snake 
had  been,  but  no  warning  rattle  greeted  us.  I  tossed  a  small  rock  into  the 
alcove  where  it  had  been  lodged.  There  was  no  answering  hiss.  The  way 
was  clear. 

A  wide  valley  which  opened  out  above  the  falls  seemed  to  offer  fair 
opportunities  for  travelling,  at  least  for  a  few  miles.  We  tramped  along 
until  nearly  noon,  when  the  appearance  of  the  sky  heralded  a  coming  storm. 
As  the  thunderheads  began  piling  up,  we  made  camp  near  a  small  side 
stream.  Insects  swarmed  about  us  in  clouds,  as  they  always  do  before  a 
midday  tropical  storm.  Directly  it  begins  to  rain  they  take  shelter  beneath 
the  leaves,  but  their  idea  seems  to  be  to  make  hay  while  the  sun  shines, 
and  their  onslaughts  on  other  animals  are  particularly  vicious  at  this  time. 
We  retreated  to  the  shelter  of  the  tent  to  eat  our  meal. 

The  cloud  formations  that  precede  a  storm  in  these  highlands  are  most 
spectacular.  They  are  great,  piled-up,  towerlike  structures,  their  under¬ 
sides  inky  black,  their  upper  portions  snow-white.  Sometimes  towards  eve¬ 
ning  the  white  cloud  masses  are  brilliantly  coloured  by  the  sun’s  rays.  The 
clouds  release  their  moisture  without  any  preliminary  drizzle.  Just  before 
the  solid  sheets  of  water  descend,  the  jungle  becomes  silent — and  then 
comes  the  deluge.  Within  a  few  minutes  little  streams  become  torrents. 
All  other  sounds  are  blotted  out  by  the  roar  of  the  water. 

The  next  day  we  marched  along  the  valley  until  we  came  to  a  fork  in  the 
stream.  Since  it  was  necessary  to  avoid  the  swollen  watercourses,  we 
started  up  the  ridge  that  divided  them  at  the  fork.  Two  days  of  hard  climb¬ 
ing  along  its  crest  brought  us  to  where  we  could  at  last  obtain  a  clear  view 
of  the  Great  Plateau.  The  country  ahead  was  rumpled  and  broken  as  though 
a  giant's  hand  had  crumpled  it.  But  with  the  coming  of  the  rains  our  last 
chance  to  retreat  had  been  cut  off.  No  one  could  travel  up  those  canyons 
or  along  the  stream  beds  until  the  next  dry  season. 

Several  days  of  travel  over  the  wet,  uneven  terrain  finally  brought  us 
to  the  sheer  cliffs  that  formed  the  base  of  the  plateau.  There  was  no  way 
that  we  could  see  to  scale  them.  Our  food  supply  was  almost  exhausted, 
for  there  had  been  no  game  along  the  arid,  rocky  pine  ridges  that  we  had 
come  across.  The  only  thing  to  do  was  to  search  along  the  foot  of  the 
cliffs  for  some  way  up. 

After  two  days  of  hunting,  we  found  a  cleavage  in  the  rock  wall  that 
looked  as  though  at  one  time  it  had  been  a  watercourse.  T.t  seemed  to  be  a 
fault  in  the  formation  that  had  been  widened  by  erosion.  It  might  formerly 
have  been  a  cave  which  had  collapsed,  for  its  floor  was  littered  with  big 
limestone  blocks.  There  was  some  water,  but  it  was  not  a  stream.  It  would 
run  along  for  perhaps  fifty  feet,  to  disappear  into  one  of  the  many  depres- 


The  Forbidden  hand 


237 


sions  in  the  stream  bed,  where  it  ran  underground.  Sometimes  we  were 
unable  to  see  the  sky  because  of  the  overhanging  walls  from  which  big 
stalactites  hung.  In  many  places  there  were  caverns  high  above  our  heads, 
possibly  eroded  by  the  wind. 

The  passage  was  an  altogether  strange  and  eerie  place.  We  were  more 
than  glad  to  be  done  with  it  when  we  finally  emerged  on  the  plateau  itself. 

We  stood  on  the  rim  of  a  great  basin,  bounded  on  three  sides  by  jagged 
peaks.  It  spread  out  like  a  many-coloured  carpet,  a  hundred  brilliant  hues 
woven  into  its  background  of  rain-washed  green.  Each  detail  of  far-off  peak 
and  vivid  flowering  tree  was  sharply  etched  in  the  clear  mountain  air.  It 
was  the  loveliest  place  we  had  seen  on  earth. 

How  much  of  our  reaction  to  the  surroundings  was  based  upon  the  sto¬ 
ries  we  had  heard  about  it,  is  hard  to  say.  Had  we  stumbled  upon  it  ac¬ 
cidentally,  knowing  nothing  of  its  legendary  import,  we  should  probably 
have  been  aware  only  of  its  unusual  beauty.  But  as  it  was,  the  very  air 
seemed  pregnant  with  mystery.  Unconsciously  we  lowered  our  voices,  or 
lapsed  into  silence,  while  cutting  our  way  through  the  gloom  of  the  thick 
undergrowth.  The  place  had  an  aura — born  of  our  imagination  perhaps — 
of  things  unseen,  but  seeing.  We  had  a  sense  of  being  trespassers,  who 
might  be  rudely  shown  the  door.  It  was  uncanny,  and  we  did  our  best  to 
dismiss  the  haunted  feeling  that  the  place  evoked,  and  for  which  there  was 
no  basis  in  fact. 

The  undergrowth  became  sparser  after  perhaps  a  mile.  Great  trees  be¬ 
gan  forming  a  canopy  overhead.  Then  off  to  the  right  we  glimpsed  a  sight 
that  stopped  us.  Three  immense,  vine-covered,  pyramidal  mounds  stood 
like  sentinals  under  blankets  of  green  foliage.  When  we  reached  the  first 
one  I  began  to  cut  away  the  tangled  vines  preparatory  to  scraping  off  the 
humus  so  that  we  could  determine  whether  the  pyramids  were  made  of  cut 
stones.  Suddenly  we  were  aware  of  the  absolute  silence  that  had  fallen 
over  the  jungle.  All  the  usual  small  sounds  had  ceased.  I  stopped,  and  we 
looked  at  each  other;  then  simultaneously  we  backed  away  from  the  pyra¬ 
mid  and  stood  motionless,  listening.  But  there  was  nothing.  A  silence  so 
profound  gripped  the  jungle  that  we  could  hear  the  blood  pounding  in  our 
ears.  It  was  as  though  we  had  been  plunged  into  a  void — some  vacuum, 
insulated  against  all  sound  waves.  Ginger  shivered  apprehensively.  “Dan, 
let’s  wait  until  we  become  better  acquainted  with  this  place  before  we 
begin  digging  into  things,”  she  urged. 

I  agreed.  But  I  was  certainly  puzzled  about  what  wras  happening  to  us. 
Either  we  were  becoming  the  victims  of  self-induced  hallucinations,  or 
there  was  some  external  factor  in  operation  of  which  we  knew  nothing. 
I  have  no  explanations  to  offer  for  this  phenomenon,  or  for  what  happened 
later.  I  am  not  a  metaphysician,  nor  do  I  believe  in  the  supernatural;  but 
there  are  plenty  of  things  in  this  country  to  give  pause  to  even  a  hard- 
headed  realist.  We  decided  to  wait. 


238 


Enchanted  Vagabonds 

A  game  trail  seemed  to  lead  towards  the  centre  of  the  plateau,  and  we 
hoped  to  a  stream.  It  was  late  afternoon  and  time  to  think  about  a  place  in 
which  to  set  up  camp. 

Our  journey  was  interrupted  by  a  wide  black  line  which  moved  slowly 
across  the  trail — an  army  of  black  ants  on  the  march.  When  we  cautiously 
approached  the  line,  a  company  of  warrior  ants  who  were  flanking  the  main 
body  of  marchers,  swarmed  out  to  meet  us.  We  beat  a  hasty  retreat.  It  was 
impossible,  even  with  a  good  running  start,  to  jump  over  them.  They  were 
fascinating  to  watch  and  we  spent  over  an  hour  observing  the  well-organ¬ 
ized,  compact  body  of  marchers. 

These  ants  are  probably  the  most  intelligent  insects  in  the  jungle.  Before 
the  colony  migrates,  an  advance  detail  of  engineers  goes  ahead  to  clear  the 
way,  build  bridges,  and  scout  the  trail.  When  the  ants  are  on  the  march,  a 
company  of  warriors,  led  by  a  captain,  heads  the  column;  behind  them, 
flanked  by  other  fighting  ants,  march  the  carriers  in  orderly  procession. 
Leaders  are  distributed  among  the  carriers,  their  job  being  to  keep  the 
burden  bearers  in  order,  and  to  help  them  over  difficult  places.  If  one  of 
the  heavily  laden  carriers  becomes  stalled,  its  leader  immediately  runs  up 
to  assist  it  over  the  difficulty.  If  at  times  the  carrier  seems  to  lag,  the 
leader  urges  it  along  by  giving  it  a  nip  on  its  hindquarters.  In  the  centre 
of  the  column,  well  protected  by  warriors  with  immense  jaws,  march  the 
royalty — the  queen  and  her  drones. 

The  ants  vary  in  size  according  to  their  duties.  The  warriors  have  large 
heads  with  great  jaws.  The  cutters,  whose  work  consists  of  climbing  trees 
and  sheering  off  the  foliage,  are  equipped  with  long,  scissor-like  jaws.  The 
carriers  have  small  heads  and  strong,  stout  legs.  There  were  also  a  number 
of  smaller  ants  who  were  probably  domestic  servants,  and  who  took  care 
of  the  storage  and  preservation  of  food  in  the  castle.  The  leaders  or  captains 
were  well-proportioned  ants  of  a  lighter  colour  than  the  various  groups  of 
workers.  Their  job  is  purely  executive — they  just  boss. 

Much  as  we  hated  to  interrupt  their  progress,  we  had  to  be  on  our  way. 
Nowhere,  though  we  looked  up  and  down  the  trail,  was  it  possible  to  cross. 
Each  time  that  we  approached  too  near  to  the  army,  we  were  driven  back 
by  the  warriors.  Fire  was  the  only  thing  that  would  stop  them.  We  built 
one  of  long  sticks  and  tossed  the  faggots  in  a  line  across  the  column,  so  that 
they  formed  a  burning  bridge.  Thousand  of  ants  swarmed  round  the  blazing 
sticks,  but  the  heat  kept  them  back.  By  moving  quickly,  and  stepping  di¬ 
rectly  upon  the  burning  sticks,  we  managed  to  make  a  flying  dash  across 
the  bewildered  army.  But  for  all  our  strategy  and  fast  foot  work,  we  picked 
up  a  few  ants  en  route  who  inflicted  painful  stings. 

Before  evening  we  arrived  at  the  banks  of  a  little  stream,  and  following 
its  course,  found  a  beautiful  camp  site.  Great  trees  and  feathery  palms 
shaded  a  white  sand  beach  beside  the  water.  Here  we  planned  to  build  a 


The  Forbidden  hand 


239 


hut  near  a  deep  pool  that  offered  an  ideal  place  to  bathe.  There  was  a 
dreamlike  quality  about  the  little  beach  that  charmed  us  both. 

Experts  by  now  at  erecting  thatched  huts,  we  built  a  good  substantial 
shelter,  well  off  the  ground,  and  guarded  the  entrance  with  heavy  tiger 
bars.  In  one  corner  we  built  a  raised  platform,  padded  it  well  with  palm 
leaves,  and  set  up  the  tent  on  it.  These  precautions,  we  felt,  should  dis¬ 
courage  talajesy  tigers,  or  any  other  jungle  menace. 

As  soon  as  we  had  time  to  become  acquainted  with  our  surroundings, 
we  found  an  abundance  of  food.  Besides  several  varieties  of  palms,  there 
were  guavas,  avocados,  plums,  figs,  breadfruit,  ynca  roots,  and  wild  coffee. 
In  addition  to  the  common  birds,  such  as  mountain  pigeon,  wild  chickens, 
turkey,  and  pavo ,  there  were  numbers  of  edible  birds  that  we  had  never 
seen  before. 

The  trees  harboured  their  usual  quotas  of  chattering  spider  monkeys, 
parrots,  parrakeets,  and  other  gorgeously  dressed  birds.  It  seemed  to  us 
that  there  were  more  varieties  here  than  anywhere  else. 

After  completing  the  hut,  we  cut  trails  to  various  points  on  the  plateau, 
so  that  we  could  hunt  without  disturbing  the  birds  and  animals  round  the 
camp.  While  cutting  up  the  creek  about  a  mile  away,  we  came  upon  huge, 
three-toed  tracks  in  the  sand.  The  round  imprints  were  about  the  size  of  a 
dinner  plate.  The  tracks  were  so  deep  that  the  animal  who  had  made  them 
must  have  weighed  nearly  a  ton  at  least.  We  recalled  the  tall  tales  we  had 
heard  from  the  natives  about  strange  beasts  that  inhabited  the  Spirit  Land. 
Could  this  be  a  confirmation  of  one  of  those  yarns? 

Its  spoor  led  us  into  a  clump  of  coquito  palms,  where  the  animal  had 
stopped  to  eat  some  of  the  nuts.  We  were  relieved  to  find  that  it  was  a 
vegetarian,  but  its  size  still  alarmed  us,  for  the  large  branches  it  had 
stepped  on  were  crushed  and  forced  into  the  soil.  The  tracks  finally  came 
out  on  a  well-beaten  trail,  which  in  turn  led  into  a  canebrake.  There  we 
stopped,  for  the  trail  now  became  a  low  tunnel  in  the  thickly  meshed  cane. 

"This  doesn't  look  so  good,"  I  said. 

We  had  a  choice  of  going  into  the  tunnel,  or  waiting  for  the  animal  to 
come  out.  We  decided  to  wait.  After  an  hour  we  became  impatient.  Was 
it  never  going  to  come  out?  "What  do  you  say  .  .  .  shall  we  go  in  a  little 
ways?" 

Ginger  said  she  was  game  if  I  was.  So  we  checked  over  the  extra  clips 
of  ammunition,  got  out  the  guns,  and  crawled  through  the  entrance.  The 
dark  tunnel  was  not  an  attractive  place  to  be  caught  in.  It  was  very  low  in 
proportion  to  its  width  of  about  five  feet.  The  animal  which  used  the  pas¬ 
sage  was  approximately  the  same  size,  for  the  cane  was  worn  smooth  and 
polished  from  its  passing.  The  ground  was  as  hard-packed  as  cement.  A 
bend  in  the  tunnel  cut  off' the  view  a  short  distance  from  the  entrance.  We 
decided  to  crawl  to  the  bend,  but  after  rounding  it  we  were  no  better  off, 
since  another  turn  still  obstructed  the  view.  Screwing  up  our  courage,  we 


240  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

crawled  a  little  further,  wondering  what  we’d  do  if  we  heard  the  animal 
coming  towards  us.  Finally  the  tunnel  opened  out  into  a  clearing  in  the 
centre  of  the  brake.  On  the  far  side  stood  the  animal  we  had  come  to  see. 

A  pair  of  small,  sleepy  eyes  peered  at  us  from  the  head  of  a  moth-eaten 
burro.  He  looked  like  a  hog  whose  metamorphosis  into  an  elephant  has 
been  arrested  halfway.  A  forlorn,  abortive  attempt  to  grow  a  trunk  hung 
down  over  its  mouth.  Its  high  hindquarters  sloped  forward  to  low  shoul¬ 
ders.  Nature  had  certainly  been  confused  in  her  purpose  when  she  designed 
that  monstrosity. 

I  carefully  aimed  the  Luger.  In  case  it  decided  to  charge  I’d  get  it  first. 
Ginger  tugged  at  my  elbow.  “Don’t  shoot,  Dan;  that  funny  face  looks 
just  like  the  burro  we  had  at  Escondido. " 

So  we  sat  on  our  haunches  and  stared,  and  the  strange  beast  stared  back 
at  us.  But  it  seemed  best  to  leave  before  it  changed  its  peaceful  intentions. 
We  backed  slowly  into  the  tunnel,  and  then  turned  and  ran  as  fast  as  we 
could  on  all  fours.  We  weren’t  taking  any  chances  on  how  fast  that  two- 
thousand-pound  monstrosity  could  run.  Out  through  the  entrance  we  dashed 
full  speed  ahead,  and  kept  on  going  until  we  reached  a  large  tree.  We 
peered  out  from  behind  it  to  see  if  we  were  being  pursued,  but  the  animal 
had  apparently  considered  us  beneath  its  notice  and  remained  in  the  clear¬ 
ing- 

On  the  way  back  to  camp  we  decided  to  call  it  “Molly,”  in  memory  of 
the  old  burro  we  had  liked  so  well  in  Puerto  Escondido.  Molly,  we  found 
out  later,  was  not  a  survival  from  the  age  of  dinosaurs.  We  had  made  the 
acquaintance  of  the  Central  American  tapir.  It  was  fortunate  for  Molly 
that  we  were  unacquainted  with  the  bad  reputation  that  the  director  of  the 
San  Diego  Zoo  gave  to  tapirs,  for  he  came  right  into  camp  on  numerous 
occasions,  and  even  ate  the  washing  off  the  clothes  line! 

The  next  day,  in  the  hope  of  discovering  its  source,  we  followed  the 
stream  to  where  it  entered  a  canyon  between  low  hills.  There  we  left  it 
and  began  cutting  a  way  towards  the  top  of  the  hills.  Within  a  short  distance 
of  the  stream  we  came  upon  an  ancient  roadway  that  led  up  the  canyon. 
Parts  of  it  were  visible,  but  in  many  places  it  was  completely  eroded,  and 
in  others  covered  by  small  land  slides.  It  was  about  ten  feet  wide,  and  well 
paved  with  large  cobblestones.  We  were  thrilled  with  the  possibilities  it 
suggested.  It  obviously  connected  that  part  of  the  plateau  where  we  had 
seen  the  first  three  mounds  with  perhaps  a  higher  mesa  which  lay  beyond  the 
intervening  hills.  We  decided  to  turn  back  and  see  where  the  road  came 
from  before  going  ahead  and  finding  out  where  it  led.  But  to  our  great 
disappointment  we  soon  lost  it  entirely.  The  ground  was  so  thickly  covered 
with  humus  that  nothing  could  be  seen. 

The  worst  thunderstorm  that  we  had  ever  experienced  occurred  that 
night.  The  thunder  shook  the  hut,  and  the  lightning  was  almost  continuous. 
The  periods  of  light  far  exceeded  the  periods  of  darkness.  It  seemed  un- 


The  Forbidden  hand 


241 


likely  that  the  thatched  roof  could  stand  up  under  the  terrific  pounding  of 
the  rain.  We  could  hear  ihe  crashing  of  great  trees  as  the  forest  giants 
went  down  before  the  lightning. 

The  next  day  we  set  off'  to  find  out  where  the  road  went.  This  time  we 
continued  in  the  direction  of  the  hills.  The  country  was  difficult  to  travel 
over  and  we  lost  the  road  several  times.  Finally  it  led  us  to  a  high  mesa. 
Climbing  a  hill  to  reconnoitre,  we  found  that  the  land  lay  in  the  shape  of 
an  hourglass,  with  the  stream  which  separated  its  upper  and  lower  portions 
forming  the  narrow  neck.  Each  mesa  was  between  four  and  five  miles 
across.  But  there  was  nothing  else  to  be  observed  from  the  hill  except  the 
sea  of  green  jungle. 

On  the  way  back  to  camp  I  shot  a  deer.  We  dragged  it  into  camp  and 
skinned  it.  After  cutting  off  a  portion  of  meat  for  supper,  I  hung  the  balance 
high  on  a  limb,  and  put  the  skin  away  to  tan.  About  midnight  we  were 
awakened  by  the  sound  of  snarling.  Not  one,  but  several  jaguars  had  come 
into  camp  after  the  meat.  A  pot  shot  at  one  of  them  in  no  way  discouraged 
them.  All  the  rest  of  the  night  we  heard  the  animals  prowling  round.  In  the 
morning  I  found  that  they  had  eaten  practically  all  the  deer. 

We  began  a  systematic  search  of  our  own  part  of  the  plateau  by  follow¬ 
ing  game  paths  wherever  possible.  The  dense  undergrowth  prevented  us 
from  seeing  objects  more  than  a  few  feet  distant  from  the  trail.  We  did 
find  a  large,  level  area  covered  with  mounds,  but  so  thickly  overgrown 
with  vines  that  we  made  no  effort  to  explore  it.  There  were  also  evidences 
of  buildings  in  other  localities.  One  of  the  strangest  things  we  observed 
was  an  occasional  open  space  in  the  midst  of  the  jungle,  where  nothing 
grew.  Since  the  prolific  growths  can  seemingly  find  a  foothold  anywhere, 
these  barren  spots  near  the  old  building  sites  always  added  a  touch  of 
mystery. 

One  day  while  circling  back  to  camp  from  one  of  these  expeditions,  we 
heard  the  squealing  of  what  we  thought  was  a  herd  of  jaboli ,  a  small  Central 
American  wild  pig  that  usually  runs  in  gangs  of  twenty  or  more.  I  shot  a 
small  one,  and  then  heard  a  bellow,  not  of  jaboli ,  but  of  wild  boars.  I  had 
apparently  shot  a  young  boar — my  mistake.  We  made  for  the  nearest  tree. 
While  I  was  helping  Ginger  up,  the  herd  charged.  My  hands  were  full  of 
Ginger,  and  it  was  impossible  to  draw  my  gun.  Before  I  had  a  chance  to 
pull  myself  up,  one  of  the  infuriated  animals  slashed  at  my  right  leg.  An¬ 
other  caught  or  hooked  my  sandal  with  its  tusk  and  almost  dragged  me 
down.  Ginger  above  was  frantically  trying  to  tell  me  something,  but  be¬ 
cause  of  the  thunder  below  I  could  not  understand  her.  I  managed  to  get 
up  on  a  limb,  and  then  I  knew!  We  had  picked  a  thorn  tree.  Also  it  was 
full  of  ants.  We  trimmed  off  the  thorns  as  best  we  could,  and  settled  our¬ 
selves  for  a  nice  long  wait.  The  boars  were  raising  bedlam,  and  we  knew 
that  they  would  be  unlikely  to  leave  in  a  hurry.  We  managed  to  get  into 
good  shooting  positions,  but  they  were  hard  targets  to  hit  as  they  dashed 


242 


Enchanted  Vagabonds 

madly  about.  Each  time  we  wounded  one  the  rest  of  the  herd  went  crazy. 
They  repeatedly  charged  the  base  of  the  tree,  and  this  gave  us  our  best 
shots.  Finally  as  darkness  fell  the  remnants  of  the  herd  left.  We  were  a 
long  way  from  camp,  and  I  climbed  down  the  tree  with  the  idea  of  getting 
a  flare  to  light  us  home.  But  the  boars  were  not  far  off  and  I  hurriedly  re¬ 
joined  Ginger.  Then  we  thought  we  heard  tigers,  which  gave  us  something 
else  to  think  about.  They  would  surely  be  attracted  by  the  dead  animals, 
and  there  was  nothing  pleasant  in  the  prospect  of  staying  in  the  tree  all 
night  with  two  or  three  big  cats  below.  I  broke  off  some  dead  branches, 
dropped  down,  and  built  a  fire  with  them  close  to  the  base  of  the  tree. 
Then  we  collected  material  for  torches,  lit  them  and  started  home.  The 
wood  was  not  suitable  for  flares  and  they  went  out  continually  as  we  felt 
our  way  through  the  dark  forest.  Each  time  this  happened,  we  were  sure 
that  the  boars  would  charge.  Eventually  we  arrived  safely  in  camp,  to 
spend  the  rest  of  the  evening  picking  out  the  thorns. 

After  my  leg  healed,  we  prepared  enough  food  to  last  us  for  several 
days,  and  started  out  to  explore  the  upper  mesa.  During  the  period  of  my 
convalescence,  we  had  made  new  clothes  from  deer  skin,  and  new  sandals 
from  the  tough  leather  of  the  boars'  hides.  We  now  felt  equal  to  the  task 
of  scaling  the  high  peaks  that  bounded  the  plateau.  From  those  heights  we 
hoped  to  gain  an  accurate  knowledge  of  the  surrounding  country.  Travel¬ 
ling  at  first  was  very  difficult,  for  our  new  shoes  were  so  slippery  that  it 
was  hard  to  maintain  a  foothold  on  the  grass-covered  slopes  of  the  ridges. 

The  second  day  we  entered  a  high  mountain  valley  completely  sur¬ 
rounded  by  cliffs  on  three  sides.  The  ascent  could  be  made  only  by  travers¬ 
ing  a  narrow  ledge  that  ran  along  the  face  of  the  rock  wall.  The  valley  was 
an  ideal  retreat,  since  it  could  be  easily  protected  against  attack.  There 
were  many  caves  at  the  bottom  of  the  cliffs,  with  fire-blackened  earth  at 
their  entrances.  A  narrow  passageway  led  upward  to  another  small  flat, 
where  there  were  several  other  caves  with  fire-blackened  floors.  We  de¬ 
cided  to  spend  the  night  in  one  of  them,  but  we  first  had  to  eject  its  tenant, 
a  small  boa. 

The  next  morning  we  carefully  examined  the  caves,  unearthing  among 
the  debris  bits  of  pottery,  stone  chips,  and  arrowheads.  Judging  from  the 
size  of  the  fragments,  the  cave  dwellers  must  have  used  huge,  unglazed 
pottery  ollas  for  the  storage  of  grain  and  water.  The  shards  were  so 
weathered,  however,  that  it  was  impossible  to  determine  whether  they  had 
ever  been  decorated.  The  people  had  probably  used  obsidian  for  their 
cutting  tools,  for  there  were  many  fragments  of  the  flintlike  volcanic  glass 
among  the  shards.  The  remains  of  a  stone  wall,  which  partially  closed  the 
entrance  to  one  of  the  caves,  indicated  that  they  had  been  used  as  permanent 
dwelling  places.  We  had  no  tools  for  digging,  and  it  was  our  policy  never 
to  disturb  anything  needlessly,  but  we  wondered  what  a  thorough  sifting 


The  Forbidden  hand 


243 


of  the  earth  on  the  cave  floors  might  disclose.  They  had  evidently  been 
occupied  over  a  long  period. 

Our  next  objective  was  the  highest  peak  on  the  plateau.  Here,  we  really 
had  hopes  of  being  able  to  map  the  surrounding  country,  to  pick  out  the 
logical  sites  of  ancient  cities,  and  to  map  possible  routes  in  and  out. 

Our  government  charts  of  the  region  told  us  that  we  were  in  the  neigh¬ 
bourhood  of  the  continental  divide.  But  not  until  we  reached  the  summit 
of  the  highest  peak  had  we  any  idea  of  the  magnificence  of  what  we  were 
about  to  see.  To  the  east,  the  blue-grey  line  where  the  Atlantic  met  the 
horizon.  On  the  west,  the  vast  expanse  of  jungle  merged  into  the  faint 
haze  of  the  Pacific.  Now  we  realized  how  Balboa  must  have  felt  when  he 
stood  upon  the  peak  in  Darien.  It  was  as  though  one  stood  on  the  top  of 
the  world.  Off  to  the  south  a  great  expanse  of  unknown  land,  of  high  peaks 
and  emerald  valleys,  spread  out  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see. 

We  followed  a  stream  to  where  part  of  it  entered  a  cave.  A  half  mile  or 
so  beyond  we  came  to  a  large  basin,  now  overgrown  with  tiger  grass, 
that  at  one  time  had  been  a  lake.  We  speculated  as  to  whether  this  could 
be  the  Enchanted  Lake  of  which  the  natives  had  so  often  told  us. 

Cutting  a  trail  to  the  upper  end  of  the  dry  lake,  we  had  skirted  its 
boundaries  for  about  a  mile  when  we  noticed  that  the  ground  was  broken 
by  little  hummocks.  They  spread  out  in  all  directions,  giving  the  otherwise 
level  ground  a  wavelike  contour.  We  had  at  last  come  to  the  site  of  the  old 
city.  Then  we  saw  the  pyramids.  There  were  seven  of  them,  arranged  in 
the  form  of  a  huge  triangle.  At  the  apex,  facing  east,  stood  the  largest  of 
the  group.  All  seven  were  so  placed  that  from  any  angle  the  eye  could 
always  see  three  in  an  equidistant  straight  line.  They  were  approximately 
one  hundred  feet  wide  across  their  bases  and  about  fifty  feet  high;  and  of 
course  were  completely  overgrown  with  vines  and  other  jungle  growths. 
There  was  one  very  odd  thing  about  them,  however,  which,  if  it  was  a 
coincidence,  was  still  unusual.  We  had  found  no  chico  zapote  trees  on  the 
plateau;  but  in  the  north-east  corner  of  each  pyramid  there  was  one  of  these 
trees  growing — and  they  were  huge.  There  were  no  others  near-by. 

Now  comes  the  purely  fantastic  side  of  the  story.  The  reader  can  give 
it  whatever  interpretation  he  chooses.  We  have  no  ideas  on  the  subject, 
and  only  relate  the  incidents  as  they  occurred  because  they  are  an  integral 
part  of  our  experience.  There  may  not  be  the  slightest  causal  relationship 
between  the  various  episodes  and  our  attempt  to  dig  into  the  mounds,  but 
they  were,  at  least  to  us,  sufficient  deterrents.  We  agreed  to  let  somebody 
else  dig. 

After  our  discovery  of  the  pyramids  we  planned  to  stay  in  their  vicinity 
for  several  days  and  see  what  else  we  might  find.  Having  decided  to  make 
camp  near  the  river,  we  were  returning  to  it  along  a  game  trail  in  the  late 
afternoon.  We  were  about  to  cross  a  large  log  on  the  trail,  when  just  ahead 
of  it  we  saw  a  tiger.  To  see  one  at  all  in  the  daytime  surprised  us,  since 


244  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

they  are  nocturnal  prowlers.  I  took  the  Luger  out  of  the  holster,  expecting 
every  minute  that  the  beast  would  disappear  into  the  brush.  To  our  amaze¬ 
ment  he  kept  right  on  coming  towards  us,  in  a  crouching  position.  I  was  too 
dumbfounded  to  realize  what  was  happening  until  Ginger  cried,  “Shoot! 
Quick!"  I  emptied  the  Luger  at  it,  and  still  the  beast  kept  coming.  Ginger 
dropped  it  with  a  finishing  shot  to  the  head — on  the  log  not  ten  feet  away. 
Two  bullets  had  gone  clear  through  its  chest,  and  three  into  its  head.  It 
measured  eight  feet  long  from  tip  to  tip.  We  skinned  it  and  went  on  to 
the  river,  where  we  made  camp.  Both  of  us  were  so  excited  that  we  lost 
our  appetites,  and  could  hardly  eat  our  supper. 

The  next  day  we  went  back  to  the  pyramids,  where  we  dug  away  the 
thick  deposit  of  humus  down  to  the  surfacing.  The  stones  were  laid  in  a 
uniform  manner,  but  not  with  the  precision  that  characterized  the  ruins 
we  had  visited  while  at  Wilderness  Camp.  There  is  no  hard  limestone  in 
the  immediate  vicinity  of  the  plateau,  and  no  attempt  had  been  made  to 
cut  the  soft  native  rock  into  finished  blocks.  The  pyramids  gave  the  im¬ 
pression  of  having  been  rather  hastily  constructed,  or  else  they  were  built 
prior  to  the  great  age  of  Mayan  architecture.  Judging  from  the  size  of  the 
trees  growing  on  their  summits,  and  the  depth  of  the  humus,  the  city  had 
been  abandoned  for  many  hundreds  of  years. 

We  prowled  round  the  ruins  for  several  days,  but  it  was  hard  to  pene¬ 
trate  the  tangled,  gloomy  undergrowth.  To  tell  the  truth,  we  were  not 
happy  about  doing  it.  Perhaps  our  subconscious  minds  played  us  tricks, 
but  we  were  certain  that  at  times  we  heard  the  peculiar  vibration  or  rhythm 
that  we  called  “drums."  We  finally  decided  to  return  to  the  thatched  hut 
on  the  lower  mesa. 

Several  days  later,  while  hunting  on  the  lower  mesa,  we  again  came  to 
the  three  pyramids  that  we  had  seen  on  first  entering  the  plateau.  To  the 
left  of  the  trail  that  we  had  originally  made  was  a  second  city.  There  were 
many  mounds  and  broken  walls;  and  at  its  upper  end  we  located  the  road¬ 
way  which  connected  the  upper  and  lower  mesas.  The  only  notable  differ¬ 
ence  between  the  two  sites  was  that  here  the  ruins  were  not  so  deeply 
imbedded  in  vegetation.  Nevertheless,  the  task  of  clearing  away  the  jungle 
growth  from  the  ruins  in  this  fertile  country  would  be  far  greater  than  it 
is  further  north  in  Yucatan.  The  rainfall  here  is  heavier  than  on  the  pen¬ 
insula  of  Yucatan,  and  with  that  is  combined  the  difference  between  the 
scanty  soil  of  the  great  limestone  reef  that  forms  the  peninsula  and  the 
luxuriant  soil  of  the  plateau. 

One  tale  told  us  by  the  natives  aroused  our  curiosity  more  than  any 
other.  They  said  that  here,  concealed  in  a  great  vault,  and  guarded  by  the 
spirits  of  the  Mayan  chiefs,  were  to  be  found  the  historical  records  of  the 
Mayan  people.  These  records  covered  a  very  long  period,  according  to 
the  natives’  story,  and  gave  a  detailed  account  of  the  history,  migrations, 


The  Forbidden  Land  245 

and  learning,  not  only  of  the  Mayas,  but  of  other  early  American  peoples 
as  well. 

It  is  possible  that  this  story  may  not  be  as  fantastic  as  it  sounds.  After 
Bishop  Diego  de  Landa  burnt  the  Mayan  books  in  Yucatan — in  an  excess 
of  pious  zeal — he  began  to  have  some  doubts  as  to  how  history  might 
regard  his  fanaticism.  It  is  said  that  after  his  return  to  Yucatan  from  a  visit 
to  Spain,  he  tried,  without  success,  to  induce  the  Mayan  priests  to  re¬ 
assemble  from  other  sources  some  of  the  priceless  manuscripts  that  the 
Spaniards  had  so  wantonly  destroyed.  The  burnt  documents,  according 
to  the  holy  Father,  dealt  with  medicine,  astronomy,  geology,  and  the 
chronological  history  of  the  Mayas  and  other  peoples.  The  story  is  that 
the  priests  were  angry,  and  not  only  failed  to  produce  any  further  records, 
but  concealed  them,  so  that  today  there  exist  in  all  the  world  only  three 
known  specimens  of  Mayan  learning:  the  manuscripts  called  the  Dresden 
Codex,  Peresianus  Codex,  and  the  Tro-Cortesianus  Codex.  De  Landa 
naively  relates  that  the  destruction  of  the  Mayan  Library  caused  the  people 
“great  pain  .  .  .  we  burnt  them  all,  which  they  took  most  grieviously.” 
Well,  a  lot  of  crimes  have  been  committed  in  the  name  of  religion,  but  few 
things  have  ever  caused  a  greater  pain  to  intelligent  people  than  De 
Landa’s  stupidity. 

One  day,  while  scouting  along  the  cliffs  on  the  western  side  of  the 
plateau,  we  came  upon  a  pile  of  huge  limestone  blocks,  weighing  at  least 
a  ton  each.  At  one  time  they  appeared  to  have  formed  a  great  plaque, 
thirty  to  forty  feet  wide,  on  the  face  of  the  cliff.  Behind  the  rocks  was  what 
seemed  to  us  to  be  the  sealed  entrance  to  a  cave.  This  was  a  highly  provoca¬ 
tive  speculation,  so  we  started  to  clear  away  the  rubble.  We  worked  until 
nearly  sundown  at  the  slow  task,  and  then  returned  to  camp,  planning  to 
go  back  early  the  next  day  and  continue  the  excavation. 

We  were  very  excited  by  the  possibilities  of  the  cave — if  it  was  a  cave — 
and  what  it  might  contain.  It  was  certain  that  no  one  had  gone  to  the 
immense  labour  of  arranging  those  stones  unless  the  place  had  some  very 
special  significance.  While  we  were  talking,  I  suddenly  experienced  a 
severe  pain  in  my  left  ankle.  I  had  no  recollection  of  having  been  bitten, 
or  of  having  had  any  other  accident  that  would  cause  such  immediate  and 
excruciating  pain.  By  ten  o'clock  that  night  my  foot  was  badly  swollen. 
At  eleven  o'clock  it  was  swollen  to  above  the  knee.  The  focal  point  of  the 
pain  was  on  the  inside  of  the  foot  about  an  inch  below  the  ankle  bone.  By 
midnight  the  entire  limb  was  almost  three  times  its  normal  size,  and  the 
foot  was  black  and  very  hard.  We  tried  hot  packs  but  that  only  seemed  to 
increase  the  pain;  and  of  course  there  was  no  way  of  applying  cold  packs. 
Ginger  said  that  I  was  delirious  part  of  the  night.  The  next  day  its  con¬ 
dition  was  worse. 

The  following  quotations  from  the  diary  of  September,  1935,  perhaps 


246  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

give  a  more  graphic  picture  of  the  situation  than  any  attempt  at  a  descrip¬ 
tion. 

"Sept.  2.  Rain  all  day.  If  foot  doesn't  get  better  will  have  to  operate. 
Running  high  temperature,  unable  to  eat.  Ginger  is  very  much  worried. 
It  may  be  a  blood  clot.  If  so,  will  have  to  open  artery.  Can  tie  on  either 
side  of  clot  and  drain.  If  that  doesn't  work  will  have  to  take  leg  off  at  knee, 
but  must  have  sun  first  to  kill  mould  and  germs.  Not  even  a  little  scratch 
will  heal  in  a  long  stretch  of  rainy  weather  such  as  we  are  having.  Am 
praying  for  sun." 

"Sept.  4.  Still  raining.  Streams  up,  so  there's  no  chance  to  get  out  of 
here.  Examined  surgical  kit,  mould  everywhere,  knives  have  sweated  in 
waterproof  wrappings,  and  are  badly  rusted.  Will  have  to  operate  soon, 
for  foot  is  getting  worse.  But  flesh  is  still  alive,  does  not  dent.  Feel  in 
pretty  bad  shape." 

"Sept.  5.  Raining.  Had  chills  all  night  and  awoke  with  high  fever. 
Temperature  103  this  morning.  Took  thirty  grains  of  quinine.  At  noon 
temperature  104.  Ginger  says  delirious  all  afternoon,  but  feel  better  this 
evening." 

"Sept.  6.  High  fever  all  day.  Rational  now,  but  Ginger  says  raved  all 

day.'* 

"Sept.  7.  Fever  broke  last  night  at  midnight.  Felt  sharp  pain  in  foot, 
and  during  delirium  pounded  it  with  my  fist.  Then  had  piercing  pain  in  my 
chest.  Unable  to  breathe — lungs  felt  cramped.  Ginger  says  in  stupor  rest 
of  night.  This  morning  feel  better." 

I  had  become  ill  on  August  31,  1935,  and  it  took  until  the  middle  of 
September  for  me  to  get  back  into  my  stride.  But  one  bit  of  bad  luck  fol¬ 
lowed  another,  and  though  we  stayed  in  the  territory  for  another  month, 
most  of  the  time  was  spent  in  recuperating  from  one  near  fatality  after 
another.  A  jaguar  scratched  me  up.  When  my  wounds  had  healed,  we  had 
simultaneous  attacks  of  tropical  fever.  We  finally  decided  that  it  was  time 
to  go. 

Our  decision  was  probably  hastened  by  the  fact  that  we  always  expe¬ 
rienced  some  personal  disaster  each  time  that  we  dug  into  anything.  Neither 
one  of  us  is  superstitious,  but  the  country’s  reputation  did  not  induce 
optimism  or  undue  assurance.  Then,  too,  we  had  had  plenty  of  first  hand 
experience  with  which  to  back  up  reports  of  its  potential  dangers.  There 
seemed  little  use  in  further  tempting  Providence. 

There  are  several  possible  explanations  as  to  why  the  present-day 
Indians  regard  this  country  with  such  awesome  reverence.  Some  of  them 
seem  to  tie  in  with  what  we  observed  and  with  the  legends.  Whether  the 
Mayan  migration  to  this  plateau  preceded  the  Conquest,  and  was  due  to 
civil  strife  among  themselves,  or  to  invasions  from  the  north,  or  whether 
it  took  place  after  the  Conquest  in  an  attempt  to  escape  the  Spanish  aggres¬ 
sors,  is  a  point  that  we  have  no  means  of  settling.  But  the  immigrants  were 


The  Forbidden  hand 


247 


probably  few  in  number,  and  magnified  the  natural  hazards  of  the  country 
in  an  effort  to  frighten  the  less  cultured  tribes  surrounding  them  into 
leaving  them  alone.  Otherwise,  the  stories  that  we  heard  from  so  many 
sources  would  in  all  likelihood  have  died  out  long  ago. 

Then  there  is  another  possibility.  The  cities  may  have  had  some  religious 
significance,  and  may  have  been  considered  holy  places.  The  present-day 
Indians  frequently  refer  to  the  area  as  “the  home  of  the  chiefs.”  This 
might  mean  that  the  priest-kings  of  the  Mayas  made  some  special  use  of  it. 
Once  or  twice  we  heard  it  called  “the  home  of  the  chiefs  of  the  mountains 
and  valleys.”  The  ancient  Mayas  called  the  four  principal  rulers  of  the 
world,  who  were  the  gods  of  the  earth,  of  agriculture,  of  the  forests  and 
animals,  and  the  benefactors  of  man,  “Lords  of  the  Mountain-Valley.”  No 
place  could  be  a  more  fitting  home  for  them  than  the  plateau.  The  caves 
might  also  indicate  that  it  had  been  so  considered  since  the  earliest  times. 
These,  of  course,  are  only  speculations  on  our  part.  For  beyond  the  fact 
that  we  discovered  that  the  plateau  had  once  been  occupied,  we  knew  very 
little  more  about  it  when  we  left  than  when  we  entered  it. 

It  took  less  time  to  get  out  of  the  country  than  it  had  to  come  in,  for 
we  knew  the  general  direction  in  which  to  travel.  But  descending  the  cliffs 
was  harder  than  climbing  up  them.  The  best  route  seemed  to  be  the  one  we 
had  used  on  entering.  We  stopped  at  the  various  camps  along  the  way  to 
pick  up  our  clothes  and  equipment,  and  to  collect  our  buried  gold.  In  spite 
of  all  our  precautions,  most  of  the  food  was  spoiled  and  our  clothes  were 
mouldy.  Also  our  exposed  films  had  sweated,  and  in  consequence  were 
ruined. 

After  a  month's  travel  we  arrived  in  Matias  Romero.  There  we  hunted 
up  the  Arab  merchant  whom  we  had  met  on  our  previous  visit.  He  bought 
the  gold,  and  gave  us  the  wherewithal  to  go  on  a  spending  spree — but  he 
didn't  tell  us  that  gold  was  now  worth  $35.00  the  ounce.  We  bought 
films,  ammunition,  five  hundred  fishhooks,  two  dozen  packages  of  needles, 
and  blue  jeans  and  two  native  shirts  for  ourselves.  Then  we  began  to  eat 
and  drink  everything  in  sight,  which  shortly  resulted  in  our  feeling  liverish. 
Before  leaving  Matias  Romero  we  replenished  our  store  of  rice,  corn,  beans, 
flour,  coffee,  salt,  tobacco,  and  so  on,  since  prices  were  cheaper  here  than 
in  Salina  Cruz. 

Then,  since  it  was  just  a  month  before  Christmas,  we  separated  to  do  a 
little  private  shopping.  That  finished,  we  took  the  train  for  Salina  Cruz. 
It  was  nearly  seven  months  since  we  had  left  Don  Juan  and  Dona  Facunda 
in  La  Ventosa,  to  be  gone  “perhaps  two  or  three  days.” 


Chapter  Twenty-one 


THE  LAND  OF  PRIMITIVE  MEN 

Our  friends  in  Salina  Cruz  gave  us  a  hearty  welcome,  and  loaned  us  the 
dilapidated  Ford  truck  to  drive  to  La  Ventosa.  There  the  entire 
population  rushed  out  to  greet  us  as  we  rattled  over  its  uneven  streets  to 
the  hut  of  Don  Juan  and  Dona  Facunda.  That  kindly  old  couple  met  us  with 
tears  in  their  eyes,  for  they,  like  many  others,  had  long  since  given  us  up 
for  dead. 

All  the  people  who  could  crowd  into  the  many  hammocks  Don  Juan 
swung  between  the  posts  of  his  hut,  came  to  hear  the  story  of  our  adven¬ 
tures  in  the  Forbidden  Land.  We  answered  their  questions  as  well  and 
as  briefly  as  we  could,  for  we  were  anxious  to  go  to  the  bodega  and  find 
out  how  the  Vagabunda  had  fared  in  our  absence. 

Don  Juan  accompanied  us  to  the  warehouse  where  we  carefully  exam¬ 
ined  the  canoe  and  other  stored  equipment.  Except  for  the  sand  which 
covered  them,  everything  was  in  as  good  condition  as  when  we  left.  This 
was  welcome  news,  for  it  meant  that  we  could  resume  our  voyage  down 
the  Gulf  of  Tehuantepec  at  an  early  date. 

Upon  our  return  to  Don  Juan’s  house  we  found  that  a  truck  load  of 
people  from  Salina  Cruz  had  arrived  in  the  interim.  Preparations  for  a 
fiesta  were  in  full  swing.  Towards  evening  the  company  sat  down  to  a 
Mexican  banquet  prepared  in  the  traditional  manner.  The  principal  dishes 
were  barbecued  lamb,  chicken  moley  broiled  fish,  and  bean  empanadas.  But 
there  were  many  other  dishes  from  the  kitchens  of  the  village  housewives 
who  prided  themselves  upon  some  specialty.  Dona  Facunda  had  made  her 
famous  sauce  of  chili,  onion,  and  tomato,  spiced  with  garlic,  ajonjoli  seeds, 
and  pickled  peppers. 

It  was  a  grand  party,  but  it  did  not  occur  to  us  that  it  was  solely  in  our 
honour — for  the  natives  make  fiesta  several  times  a  week — until  towards 
the  end  of  the  meal,  when  Don  Juan  arose  and  proposed  a  toast:  “To  those 
who  have  just  returned  and  are  about  to  depart,  we  wish  you  luck  and  a 
good  voyage.”  Outside  the  hut  a  howling  norther  whipped  gusts  of  sand 
through  the  reed  lattice  work.  Not  far  away  the  storm-tossed  waters  of 
the  gulf  sounded  an  ominous  note  of  danger.  Inside,  the  gaiety  became  a 
trifle  forced,  although  we  laughed  and  joked  and  talked  about  everything 
but  the  wind. 

It  came  my  turn  to  reply  to  Don  Juan’s  toast.  “ Al  viento I  said.  “We 


249 


The  hand  of  Primitive  Men 

hope  the  wind  handles  us  with  soft  hands,  for  it  is  with  fear  and  a  sincere 
respect  for  its  dangers  that  we  face  the  Gulf  of  Tehuantepec.  We  do  not 
want  you  to  think  that  we  are  brave,  for  we  are  not.  Soon  we  will  be  leaving 
for  Champerico,  Guatemala,  and  we  will  arrive  there  even  if  we  have  to 
carry  the  canoe  along  the  beach.  But  we  are  leaving  the  warmth  of  your 
friendship  with  regret,  and  we  hope  that  some  day  we  may  be  fortunate 
enough  to  return  to  you/* 

There  were  several  reasons  for  our  departure  at  this  season,  although 
it  was  the  most  dangerous  time  of  year  for  sailing  in  the  gulf.  Our  tourist 
cards,  permitting  us  a  six-months  residence  in  Mexico,  had  long  since 
expired;  and  our  continued  presence,  without  official  permission,  would 
eventually  cause  trouble  and  embarrassment  to  our  friends  among  the  port 
officials,  who  had  no  authority  to  allow  us  to  remain.  Besides  this,  there 
was  our  natural  desire  to  see  what  lay  along  the  coast  ahead. 

As  though  to  answer  an  unspoken  challenge,  the  wind  rose  to  a  crescendo 
of  fury.  It  whined  through  the  doorway,  and  shook  the  sturdy  hut  with 
violence.  The  hour  grew  late,  but  our  friends,  who  seemed  to  think  that 
they  were  leaving  us  to  our  doom,  were  reluctant  to  bring  the  party  to  a 
close.  Finally  Don  Juan  asked,  “And  when  will  you  depart,  my  friends?" 

“When  the  norther  subsides,"  I  replied. 

“Very  well,  then,"  he  said,  “let  us  all  plan  to  meet  again  when  that 
happens." 

The  party  broke  up,  people  taking  their  leave,  one  by  one,  until  only 
we  four  remained.  Dona  Facunda  and  Ginger  seated  themselves  by  the 
fire,  while  Don  Juan  asked  me  to  accompany  him  to  the  beach  to  make  sure 
that  the  canoes  were  safe.  Sometimes  the  norther  would  blow  the  sand 
out  from  under  them  until  it  formed  a  pit  in  which  the  canoes  sank  out  of 
sight  as  the  sand  drifted  over  them. 

As  we  walked  together  down  towards  the  beach,  the  hard-driven  sand 
stung  our  legs  and  burnt  our  faces.  After  Juan  found  the  canoes  to  be  in 
good  order,  he  suggested  that  we  sit  down  for  a  talk  in  the  lee  of  the  ware¬ 
house.  Except  for  the  wind  it  was  a  beautiful  cloudless  night.  The  con¬ 
stellation  of  the  Southern  Cross  gleamed  above  us,  and  the  stars  seemed 
very  near  to  earth.  But  Don  Juan’s  face  was  grave  and  troubled.  After  a 
long  silence  I  said,  “What  is  it,  Juan?  Why  are  you  worried?" 

“I  am  thinking  of  many  strange  things,"  he  replied.  “You  are  not 
afraid  of  death?" 

“Not  particularly,"  I  answered.  “There  isn’t  much  use  in  being  afraid. 
Why  make  life  miserable  by  worrying  over  what  can’t  be  avoided.  Why 
do  you  ask,  Juan?" 

“It  is  only  that  I  wish  to  understand,"  he  answered.  “You  know,  of 
course,  that  you  will  meet  death  if  you  attempt  to  cross  the  gulf.  Such  a 
thing  is  impossible  in  a  little  boat." 

“Yes,"  I  admitted,  “it  seems  impossible,  but  so  do  many  things  until 


250  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

some  one  does  them.  We  may  be  forced  to  give  up  the  idea,  but  first  we 
must  try.  Soon  we  should  have  three  days  of  calm  weather,  and  that  will 
give  us  time  to  reach  Champerico.  If  we  do  not  have  three  days  of  calm,  of 
course  we  shall  fail." 

The  old  Indian  silently  contemplated  the  stars  for  a  long  time,  and  then 
he  asked,  "Do  you  believe  in  the  heaven  and  hell  that  the  Christian  priests 
talk  about?  Do  you  think  that  the  Great  Power  punishes  men  with  fire  or 
rewards  them  with  golden  crowns  and  everlasting  life  because  they  believe 
or  disbelieve  in  Him?" 

"I  really  don't  know,  Juan,"  I  answered.  "We  are  also  taught  these 
things,  but  I  don’t  know." 

"I  cannot  understand  the  priests,"  he  continued.  "They  talk  so  much 
about  what  comes  after  life — and  how  can  they  know?  And  so  little  about 
how  to  live,  of  which  men  should  know  much.  Perhaps  it  would  be  better 
to  think  more  about  how  we  can  be  good  and  useful  men  on  earth  and  trust 
the  Great  Power  to  make  the  right  plans  for  us  later.  I  do  not  think  He  will 
punish  us  then  for  what  we  do  now,  more  than  we  punish  ourselves  while 
we  live.  A  good  man  knows  the  things  that  are  right  because  they  make 
him  happy,  and  no  man  can  injure  others  and  find  this  happiness  for  himself 
alone.  These  are  the  things  we  were  taught  to  believe  by  our  own  great 
teachers  of  the  past,  and  for  the  Indian  the  old  ways  are  best." 

"Who  taught  you  about  the  Great  Power,  Juan?" 

"My  father,"  he  replied.  "But  my  people  first  learnt  of  these  things 
long  ago  when  the  Zapotecs  were  strong  and  powerful.  A  great  teacher, 
whose  bearded  face  was  white,  came  to  us  from  the  East.  This  man  taught 
us  to  do  many  things  of  which  we  knew  nothing  before  his  coming.  He 
ruled  over  many  tribes  in  turn  and  each  of  them  called  him  by  a  different 
name.  This  man  taught  us  to  be  unselfish,  and  to  worship  the  Great  Power; 
and  while  he  ruled  over  us  the  tribe  prospered.  Then  he  departed  in  a  little 
boat,  but  he  promised  that  some  day  he  would  return  to  us.  Long,  long 
after  he  had  gone,  the  Spaniards  came.  At  first  we  thought  that  they,  too, 
might  be  great  and  good  teachers.  We  knew  that  this  was  not  so  when 
they  tried  to  destroy  all  that  he  had  taught.  Our  books,  our  temples,  all 
these  things  perished.  Then  we  were  forced  to  build  temples  to  their  gods 
with  the  stones  of  our  old  altars.  They  rewarded  our  kindness  with  cruelty. 
Now  we  use  their  churches,  pray  before  their  altars,  and  listen  to  the  words 
of  their  priests,  but  when  we  pray,  we  pray  to  our  ancient  god.  Sometimes 
they  know  this,  but  what  can  they  do?" 

I  could  not  help  thinking  as  Juan  told  me  his  version  of  the  great 
mythological  hero,  Quetzalcoatl,  who  according  to  Indian  tradition  ruled 
over  the  Toltecs,  Mayas,  and  Zapotecs  in  turn,  of  the  painful  contrast 
between  that  "bearded  man  whose  face  was  white,"  and  the  men  who 
came  after.  Perhaps  the  great  priest-king-teacher,  whose  memory  is  still 
venerated  in  a  thousand  little  villages  throughout  Mexico,  is  only  a  folk 


The  hand  of  Primitive  Men  £61 

myth,  but  I  do  not  think  so.  Quetzalcoatl,  as  the  Indians  portray  him,  is 
an  altogether  attractive  figure,  who  taught  them  agriculture,  astronomy, 
and  the  use  of  metals;  who  gave  them  a  calendar,  taught  them  to  write, 
and  instructed  them  in  the  arts.  If  he  has  no  historical  reality,  he  is  still 
a  finer  creation  of  the  primitive  mind  than  many  a  deity  of  more  sophisti¬ 
cated  peoples. 

"Do  all  your  people  worship  the  Great  Power,  Juan?”  I  questioned. 

No,  he  answered.  “Some  of  the  mountain  people  worship  the  sun 
because  he  gives  light  and  heat,  and  makes  the  crops  grow.  And  because 
there  must  be  two  of  everything,  they  also  worship  the  moon,  his  queen. 
But  my  own  people  realize  that  the  sun,  the  moon,  the  earth,  and  the  stars 
are  ruled  by  a  still  greater  One.” 

Juan,  I  am  glad  that  you  know,”  I  said,  “that  the  sun  is  only  one  of 
many  heavenly  bodies.  Do  you  see  that  little  star?”  I  pointed  to  a  bright 
star  overhead.  “That  little  speck  is  many  times  as  big  as  our  sun,  and 
much  farther  away.  If  the  Great  Power  were  to  put  His  hand  over  it,  its 
light  would  continue  to  shine  on  earth  for  millions  of  years.  The  light  that 
you  see  left  that  star  long  before  the  coming  of  your  great  teacher.” 

He  gazed  at  the  twinkling  point  of  light  for  a  long  time,  as  he  tried  to 
comprehend  the  distances  of  stellar  space.  Then  he  turned  to  me  and  said 
with  glowing  eyes,  “Perhaps  the  Great  Power  will  permit  me  to  go  there 
some  day  after  I  die  and  start  life  all  over  again.” 

“Who  knows?”  I  said.  “Perhaps  you  may.  At  any  rate,  Juan,  I  like  your 
faith,  for  it  has  made  your  people  kind  and  considerate.” 

Danielito,  he  said  hesitantly,  “would  you  like  to  go  back  to  the  house 
and  burn  a  candle  with  me?” 

“Yes,”  I  answered,  “I  should  like  to  very  much.” 

Ginger  and  Dona  Facunda  were  still  talking  before  the  fire  when  we 
came  in.  The  four  of  us  went  to  the  altar,  where  Don  Juan  lit  a  candle, 
and  asked  for  the  Great  Power's  protection  for  his  dear  friends.  Ginger  and 
I  felt  that  if  any  one  had  a  right  to  invoke  the  Deity's  aid  in  our  behalf  it 
was  surely  that  good  and  humble  Indian. 

We  retired,  but  not  to  sleep,  for  the  fleas  bit  into  us  unmercifully.  After 
one  abortive  attempt  to  rid  ourselves  of  their  attentions  by  swinging  our 
hammocks  four  feet  off  the  ground — in  the  naive  belief  that  no  flea  could 
jump  that  far — we  were  finally  forced  to  swing  them  just  under  the  roof 
beams,  where  we  could  only  reach  them  ourselves  by  standing  on  benches. 
This  was  too  much  for  the  Olympic  champions  below,  and  we  were  at  last 
able  to  sleep  in  peace. 

The  norther  awoke  us  at  daylight,  and  while  the  women  were  busy 
round  the  breakfast  fire,  I  went  down  to  the  beach  to  have  a  look  at  the 
gulf.  Its  waters  were  whipped  to  a  froth,  and  great  clouds  of  spray  were 
being  whirled  out  to  sea  as  though  they  were  in  the  grip  of  a  cyclone. 
Sharp  gusts  picked  up  sand  on  the  beach  and  hurled  it  high  on  the  sand  hills 


252  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

to  the  south.  It  was  not  an  encouraging  picture,  and  I  returned  to  the  hut 
wondering  what  our  chances  really  were. 

While  we  were  eating  breakfast,  the  local  shipping  agent,  Jimenez, 
stopped  his  galloping  Ford  at  the  door  to  announce  the  appointment  of  a 
new  Port  Captain  at  Salina  Cruz,  who  would  have  to  sign  our  clearance 
papers  before  we  could  leave  La  Ventosa.  This  was  sure  to  be  a  long- 
drawn-out  negotiation  with  a  new  man,  and  we  proceeded  at  once  to  Salina 
Cruz. 

We  had  to  wait,  as  usual,  while  the  Captain  dressed  himself  in  his 
uniform.  An  attractive  looking  young  fellow  who  took  the  dignity  of  his 
office  with  great  seriousness,  he  spent  considerable  time  carefully  reading 
our  papers.  When  he  had  finished  I  spent  an  equal  amount  of  time  compli¬ 
menting  him  and  all  the  other  officials  we  had  met,  for  the  kindness  and 
consideration  with  which  we  had  been  received  by  them  throughout  our 
sojourn  in  Mexico.  I  suggested  that  since  we  were  leaving  for  Guatemala 
and  there  was  a  faint  question  in  our  minds  as  to  how  we  might  be  received 
there,  a  letter  of  introduction  from  him  would  undoubtedly  help  us.  To  save 
him  time,  I  said,  I  had  prepared  such  a  letter  for  him  to  sign.  This  was 
always  a  good  idea,  for  it  was  easier  for  the  average  port  official  to  copy  or 
sign  a  letter  than  to  compose  one.  He  listened  without  comment  to  what 
I  had  to  say,  then  called  his  secretary,  and  in  a  voice  vibrant  with  feeling, 
dictated  a  letter  that  would  have  opened  the  gates  of  heaven  to  us — pro¬ 
viding  Saint  Peter  could  read  Spanish.  It  was  a  masterpiece,  requesting  all 
civil  and  governmental  authorities  to  do  their  utmost  in  our  behalf. 

As  we  left  his  office,  our  precious  letter  and  other  papers  carefully  tucked 
away  in  their  waterproof  pouch,  we  met  Gomez,  manager  of  the  cable 
office.  News  travels  fast  in  Salina  Cruz,  and  he  already  knew  of  our  visit 
to  the  Port  Captain.  He  remarked,  when  we  told  him  that  we  had  our 
clearance  papers,  that  he  was  surprised,  for  he  had  not  expected  the  Captain 
to  permit  us  to  leave  during  the  stormy  weather.  It  was  a  good  thing,  he 
concluded,  that  the  Captain  did  not  know  the  size  of  the  Vagabunda . 

We  had  one  last  fling  in  Salina  Cruz,  and  spent  the  rest  of  the  day  eating 
and  drinking.  When  we  returned  to  La  Ventosa  late  in  the  afternoon 
neither  one  of  us  felt  happy.  We  had  eaten  too  much,  and  had  somehow 
acquired  splitting  headaches. 

The  norther  continued  all  the  following  week,  which  gave  us  time  to 
make  some  repairs  on  the  canoe  and  to  repaint  it.  Then  we  overhauled  and 
renovated  our  equipment,  so  that  when  Don  Juan  announced  quietly,  "To¬ 
morrow  the  wind  will  die,"  we  were  ready  to  take  advantage  of  the  lull. 

As  soon  as  he  passed  the  news  along  to  the  villagers  that  we  were  ready 
to  leave,  we  heard  the  clatter  of  a  horse's  hoofs.  In  reply  to  my  questioning 
look,  he  said,  "He  is  going  to  tell  your  friends  in  Salina  Cruz."  We  were 
singularly  touched  by  the  affectionate  interest  that  these  simple  people  took 
in  our  welfare. 


253 


The  Land  of  Primitive  Men 

We  worked  late  that  night  bringing  all  of  our  equipment  down  to  the 
warehouse,  preparatory  to  an  early  start  the  following  morning.  We  stowed 
away  in  the  grub  box  enough  corn,  beans,  rice,  coffee,  and  tobacco  to  last 
us  for  about  three  weeks.  When  everything  was  in  perfect  order,  we  went 
for  a  last  stroll  along  the  beach.  The  wind  had  dropped  to  a  dead  calm,  and 
the  treacherous  gulf  was  a  placid  as  as  lake,  its  broad  expanse  dotted  with 
the  flickering  lights  of  the  torches  attached  to  the  bows  of  the  fishing 
canoes.  These  people  fish  day  and  night  during  the  lulls  in  the  northers, 
for  they  may  wait  a  month  or  more  before  they  have  another  opportunity. 
Fish  is  the  staple  article  of  diet  and  their  only  item  of  barter. 

Dawn  found  us  transporting  the  canoe  to  the  water’s  edge,  our  friends 
carrying  the  other  equipment.  Then  the  rattle  of  the  Ford  truck  announced 
the  arrival  of  the  people  from  Salina  Cruz.  The  first  truck  was  closely  fol¬ 
lowed  by  a  second.  In  a  few  minutes  they  came  streaming  across  the  beach 
to  meet  us,  loaded  down  with  baskets  of  food,  and  carrying  their  guitars. 
Since  the  news  could  not  have  reached  them  until  late  the  preceding  night, 
they  had  apparently  spent  the  rest  of  it  preparing  food  and  getting  to  La 
Ventosa.  Here  they  were,  dressed  in  their  best,  and  loaded  down  with  gifts 
that  a  dozen  V agabundas  could  not  have  carried.  Anxious  as  we  were  to  put 
to  sea,  we  did  not  have  the  heart  to  leave  until  after  their  farewell  fiesta. 
Old  Dona  Facunda  now  came  down  to  the  beach,  bringing  a  big  olla  of 
coffee  and  some  of  her  famous  pan  dulce  for  our  breakfast.  “Getting  away  is 
certainly  going  to  be  tough,”  I  whispered  to  Ginger. 

People  ranged  themselves  round  the  canoe,  and  began  singing  songs 
of  the  sea  and  of  farewell,  accompanied  by  the  tinkling  guitars.  When  the 
fiesta  was  at  its  height,  the  fishing  canoes  began  to  come  in.  The  fishermen, 
clad  only  in  loin  cloths,  approached  us  with  anxious  faces.  “Danielito,  the 
wind,  7a  viene  el  viento ”  (“the  wind  is  coming”).  A  murmur  went  up  from 
the  crowd. 

How  long  would  the  wind  last  this  time?  I  asked  the  fishermen.  They 
were  not  sure,  but  it  might  last  a  month.  However,  it  did  not  always  blow 
all  the  way  down  the  coast,  only  in  the  gulf  itself.  We  knew  that  if  we 
could  get  out  of  the  gulf  before  the  wind  became  too  strong,  we  still  had 
a  sporting  chance;  but  we  must  leave  immediately. 

We  hurriedly  said  good-bye,  carried  the  canoe  into  the  water,  and 
loaded  it.  As  we  paddled  out  beyond  the  breaker  line,  we  stopped  and 
waved  a  last  farewell  before  we  hoisted  sail  and  started  down  the  coast, 
hugging  the  shore  line.  Our  friends  still  stood  on  the  beach,  holding  the 
gifts  they  had  brought  us. 

The  fiesta  and  the  prolonged  farewells  had  taken  up  most  of  the  morning 
and  it  was  nearly  noon.  The  wind  had  increased  in  strength,  and  though 
we  reefed  and  double-reefed  the  sail,  it  was  almost  too  rough  for  sailing 
before  we  reached  the  mouth  of  the  Tehuantepec  River  which  empties  into 
the  gulf  three  miles  south  of  La  Ventosa.  On  reaching  the  bar  at  its  mouth. 


254 


Enchanted  Vagabonds 

we  found  that  we  had  to  go  to  sea  about  half  a  mile  to  round  it.  The  canoe 
began  to  pitch  and  toss  so  badly  that  it  was  almost  impossible  to  use  the 
sail  at  all,  so  we  furled  and  lashed  it  to  the  deck.  Paddling  out  round  the 
bar  was  easy,  but  getting  back  inshore  was  not.  The  chop  was  so  high  that 
it  broke  completely  over  the  canoe,  and  our  best  efforts  at  the  paddles 
weren't  good  enough  to  make  any  headway  against  the  wind.  Ginger 
shouted,  “We  aren't  gaining  any  ground  at  all." 

"Give  her  all  you've  got,"  I  shouted  back.  "We've  got  to  make  it." 
I  had  visions  of  the  canoe  being  blown  backwards  out  to  sea  and  hammered 
to  pieces  by  the  pounding  waves.  There  wasn’t  a  chance  to  swim  in  such 
a  sea  either,  for  the  breakers  were  short  and  high  and  the  wind  blew  the 
tops  off  them.  Blisters  rose  on  our  hands  and  the  paddles  grew  sticky  as 
they  broke.  It  was  impossible  to  see  for  the  spray  that  blew  in  our  eyes 
and  blinded  us.  But  we  had  to  make  it  somehow. 

Now  I  knew  why  thosf*  fishermen  had  come  ashore  at  the  least  hint  of 
the  norther.  If  the  wind  increased,  or  we  broke  a  paddle  .  .  .  ?  I  could  hear 
Juan  say,  "And  then,  my  friend?"  Deciding  it  was  better  to  risk  a  crack-up 
on  the  bar  than  to  continue  fighting  the  waves,  we  changed  our  course  and 
paddled  at  an  angle  towards  the  bar.  We  had  had  a  seven-months  vacation 
from  fighting  storms  at  sea,  and  our  softened  muscles  were  so  tired  that 
we  could  hardly  use  them. 

It  seemed  to  us  that  the  wind  and  the  ocean  were  having  a  mighty  tug 
of  war  with  the  frail  canoe  as  the  prize.  The  big  breakers  that  rolled  under 
us  carried  us  but  a  little  distance  shoreward  before  the  giant  hand  of  the 
norther  sheared  off  their  white  crests  and  sent  them  spinning  seaward  in 
a  cloud  of  spume.  While  the  wind  held  us  back,  the  spent  wave  rolled  out 
from  beneath  the  canoe  and  continued  on  towards  the  beach  in  a  blanket  of 
spray.  Nevertheless,  the  breakers  did  enable  us  to  maintain  a  slight  headway 
against  the  wind.  Without  them  our  efforts  with  the  paddles  would  have 
been  utterly  useless.  Then  for  a  brief  moment  the  norther  eased  a  bit. 
Putting  every  ounce  of  our  remaining  strength  behind  our  strokes,  we 
were  able  to  catch  a  wave  and  to  shoot  into  shore  with  it,  landing  close 
beside  the  river’s  mouth.  As  though  the  wind  had  declared  a  truce  just 
long  enough  for  us  to  reach  shore,  it  now  charged  down  upon  the  gulf  with 
fury. 

Sand  stung  our  bodies  and  filled  our  eyes  and  ears  as  we  pulled  the 
canoe  high  up  on  the  beach  and  stacked  the  equipment  in  the  lee  of  it.  We 
took  the  guns  and  harpoon,  and  ploughed  through  the  sand  storm  to  the 
shelter  of  some  mangroves  that  grew  along  the  river  banks,  where  we  sat 
and  listened  to  the  wind  and  wondered  what  we  ought  to  do.  Of  course  we 
could  return  to  La  Ventosa,  but  that  seemed  rather  an  inglorious  climax 
to  our  dramatic  exit.  The  alternatives  were  either  to  camp  near  the  river, 
which  had  dried  up  to  a  trickle,  or  attempt  to  reach  the  lagoons,  which 
according  to  the  charts,  were  at  least  ten  miles  inland.  Before  we  could 


255 


The  hand  of  Primitive  Men 

reach  a  decision,  we  saw  through  the  fog  of  blowing  sand  two  figures 
approaching  the  canoe.  Ginger  remained  behind  in  the  mangroves,  while 
I  went  forward  to  investigate. 

The  two  men  were  pawing  over  the  equipment  when  I  arrived.  Entirely 
naked  except  for  a  bit  of  dirty  rag  wrapped  round  their  heads,  and  carrying 
wicked-looking  spears,  they  were  the  toughest-looking  fellows  I  had  ever 
seen.  Neither  man  responded  to  my  greeting,  but  darted  swift,  sly  glances 
at  me,  trying  to  determine  what  weapons  I  carried.  I  asked  them  if  they 
spoke  Spanish;  their  reply  was  a  grunt.  Another  grunt  answered  my  next 
question  as  to  what  tribe  they  belonged  to.  I  tried  again  to  find  out  where 
they  lived.  “Under  the  trees,"  one  replied  in  broken  Spanish,  and  with  that 
the  conversation  languished.  They  seated  themselves  in  the  lee  of  the  equip¬ 
ment.  and  I  sat  down  opposite  them.  Ginger  soon  joined  me,  and  from 
then  on  the  four  of  us  just  sat  and  looked  at  one  another.  The  natives' 
appearance  and  behaviour  were  unlike  anything  we  had  previously  en¬ 
countered.  Not  even  the  mixed  tribes  we  had  fought  with  in  the  north 
seemed  so  primitive  or  savage.  “This  looks  like  an  endurance  contest,"  I 
said  to  Ginger,  after  what  seemed  hours  of  waiting.  “I  wonder  who  these 
natives  are  and  what  they  want." 

“I  don't  know,"  she  replied,  “but,  judging  by  appearances,  they’re 
probably  the  wickedest  natives  we’ll  see  in  a  long  time." 

There  was  nothing  to  do  but  wait,  and  we  sat  and  fidgeted  and  fingered 
our  gun  butts,  while  the  wind  whipped  sand  into  our  backs.  The  natives 
sat  with  their  heads  bowed  to  the  wind,  saying  nothing,  doing  nothing. 
Occasionally  one  of  them  would  glance  covertly  in  our  direction.  His  close- 
set,  cold  eyes  seemed  to  be  trying  to  determine  the  exact  moment  to  strike. 
Still  neither  one  of  them  made  any  overt  gesture,  and  until  they  did  there 
was  nothing  for  us  to  do  but  wait. 

In  the  late  afternoon  we  saw  a  horseman  coming  down  the  beach,  his 
head  lowered  to  the  wind,  a  gun  across  the  pommel  of  his  saddle.  A  short 
distance  away  he  jumped  off  his  horse,  and  came  plodding  towards  the 
canoe,  with  his  gun  ready  for  action.  There  was  something  familiar  about 
his  swinging  walk.  Then  he  raised  himself  from  his  half-crouching  position, 
and  we  saw  his  face.  It  was  Juan!  But  a  Juan  so  angry  that  we  hardly 
recognized  the  kind,  placid  man  that  we  knew  so  well.  “ Afuera /"  (“Get 
out!")  he  shouted,  and  raised  his  gun  and  started  towards  the  two  natives. 
They  jumped  and  ran  like  scared  rabbits. 

“Juan!"  we  shouted,  and  ran  after  him.  He  stopped  and  waited  for  us. 

Then  he  put  his  arm  round  Ginger's  shoulder  and  patted  it,  as  he  said, 
“I  was  so  afraid  for  you,  the  wind — it  is  here  again,  and  so  I  rode  down 
the  beach  to  see  if  you  had  got  ashore.  You  are  in  great  danger  here  and 
we  must  leave  at  once.  This  is  the  territory  of  the  Marenos,  who  occupy 
most  of  the  lagoon  country  south  of  the  Tehuantepec  River.  On  the  other 


2 56  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

side  of  the  river  you  will  be  safe,  for  they  do  not  dare  to  cross  it,  but  we 
must  get  there  quickly/' 

The  wind  made  paddling  round  the  bar  impossible;  but  we  had  once 
towed  the  canoe  through  shallow  water  for  seven  miles  along  the  coast 
of  Baja  California  near  Ensenada,  and  we  could  tow  it  in  this  emergency. 
Juan  helped  us  carry  it  into  the  water  and  load  it.  Then  while  Ginger  and 
I  pulled  it  through  the  shallow  water  across  the  bar  at  the  river's  mouth, 
he  kept  a  parallel  course  along  the  beach.  The  wind  and  our  blistered  hands 
made  progress  doubly  hard,  but  at  last  we  managed  to  get  the  canoe  to  a 
place  where  Juan  considered  we  would  be  safe  for  the  night. 

We  cleared  a  camp  site  among  the  mangroves  on  the  beach,  and  while 
Ginger  prepared  supper,  Juan  and  I  sat  by  the  fire  and  talked.  The  strange- 
looking  Indians  had  aroused  my  curiosity  and  I  urged  Juan  to  tell  me  all 
he  knew  about  them.  He  said  that  they  lived  in  the  vast,  little-known  lagoon 
country  which  extended  from  the  Tehuantepec  River  to  Champerico,  Guate¬ 
mala.  I  got  out  the  chart  of  the  lagoons,  and  together  we  scanned  it  by 
the  firelight.  Juan  disagreed  with  my  descriptions  of  the  territory  as  indi¬ 
cated  on  the  map.  “No,  no,"  he  said,  “it  is  not  like  that  at  all.  Those  men 
have  not  seen  it.  Many  of  those  lagoons  are  not  connected  as  they  appear 
to  be  on  your  map.  They  are  not  open  bodies  of  water,  but  are  waterways 
that  wind  in  and  out  among  dense  mangrove  swamps.  Perhaps  they  were 
different  once,  when  the  Spaniards  lived  in  that  country,  quien  sabe?” 

“No,"  said  Juan  in  answer  to  my  question,  “there  are  no  people  living 
anywhere  near  these  lagoons  now,  only  wild  Marenos  who  are  bandits 
and  live  by  theft.  Some  of  them  have  guns  which  they  have  stolen  from 
travellers  who  have  tried  to  pass  through  their  country,  others  are  only 
armed  with  spears.  They  build  no  cities  or  houses,  but  live  in  brush  shelters; 
nor  do  they  plant  crops.  They  are  wanderers  who  live  for  the  most  part 
on  the  fish  they  spear,  and  what  they  can  steal.  The  Mexican  government 
sent  in  troops  to  punish  them,  but  they  easily  ambushed  the  soldiers  and 
killed  them,  and  then  stole  their  guns  and  ammunition.  The  Marenos  had 
a  great  advantage  over  the  soldiers  because  they  had  canoes  and  knew  the 
waterways  where  the  soldiers  were  unable  to  follow  them.  Just  recently  a 
caravan  of  traders,  who  should  have  known  better,  went  into  the  country 
in  hopes  of  trading  with  them.  The  Marenos  killed  the  men  and  stole  their 
women  and  oxen.  I  tell  you,  Danielito,  that  they  are  very  bad  people,  and 
that  is  why  no  one  knows  very  much  about  their  country." 

Poor  Juan  had  not  the  slightest  idea  of  the  effect  that  his  hair-raising 
story  had  on  us.  The  coffee  boiled  over  while  Ginger  sat  wide-eyed  and 
forgetful,  listening  to  his  tale.  I  lit  my  pipe  and  tried  to  appear  only  mildly 
interested.  “You  know,  Dan,"  said  Ginger,  after  a  long  pause,  “there 
really  isn’t  anything  to  see  along  the  coast  between  Salina  Cruz  and  Cham¬ 
perico — just  a  straight  sand  beach." 

“Uh  huh,  I  was  thinking  that,  too." 


257 


The  Land  of  Primitive  Men 

''Well?''  interrogated  Ginger. 

“Well,  what?”  I  turned  to  Juan. 

“Juan,  how  far  is  it  from  here  to  the  nearest  lagoon?” 

He  looked  at  me  in  surprise.  “About  ten  miles,  but  there  is  no  road. 
The  nearest  lagoon  to  the  ocean  is  called  Punta  de  Agua  at  this  end,  where 
it  is  only  a  narrow  channel.  Further  down  the  coast  where  you  enter  it  from 
the  ocean  it  is  very  wide  and  is  called  Laguna  Inferior.  But  you  surely  are 
not  thinking  of  going  there — the  Marenos  would  kill  you.  Also  it  is  not 
possible  to  travel  through  these  inland  waters  to  Champerico,  for  they  are 
closed  in  many  places  by  cerrados  (channels  overgrown  with  mangroves) 
through  which  you  cannot  travel  even  on  foot — certainly  not  in  the  canoe. 
Why  not  wait  with  us  in  La  Ventosa  until  the  norther  goes  down,  and  then 
continue  your  journey  on  the  ocean?  That  would  be  better.” 

“Yes,”  I  agreed,  “it  would  be  better,  and  a  lot  safer,  but  we  want  to  see 
this  country  you've  told  us  about.  There  should  be  many  things  of  interest 
in  the  waters  and  on  the  shores  of  those  lagoons.  We'd  like  to  know  more 
about  those  naked  Indians,  explore  the  great  swamps,  and  perhaps  visit 
some  of  the  old  Spanish  cities.  These  are  the  things  we  like  to  do.  That  is 
why  we  are  making  this  trip.” 

He  tried  to  dissuade  us  by  enumerating  all  the  insects,  poisonous  plants, 
and  reptiles  that  lived  in  the  country.  We  agreed  that  they  were  probably 
pretty  bad,  but  if  they  were  not  there  many  men  would  have  gone  into  the 
country  before  us,  and  by  now  it  would  be  no  more  exciting  than  the 
Isthmus.  He  finally  gave  up  with  a  shrug  and  a  smile,  and  promised  before 
he  left  that  he  would  arrange  for  oxcarts  to  come  for  the  canoe  and  the 
equipment  in  the  morning.  With  a  parting  admonition  to  keep  a  sharp  look¬ 
out  for  Marenos,  he  mounted  his  horse  and  rode  away. 

We  discussed  the  problem  of  Mexico  for  a  few  minutes  before  we  went 
to  sleep  in  the  canoe.  It  was  easy  to  see  why  the  Spaniards  had  never 
actually  conquered  the  country,  and  why  successive  Mexican  governments 
had  failed  to  produce  order  and  stability  throughout  the  Republic.  It  was 
possible  to  succeed  in  the  valley  of  Mexico,  but  the  mountains  of  Sonora, 
the  deserts  of  Baja  California,  the  highlands  of  Southern  Mexico,  and  the 
steaming  swamps  and  jungles  of  the  tierra  caliente  were  another  matter. 
In  addition  to  the  climate  and  geographical  handicaps,  thousands  of  bellig¬ 
erent  Indians  who  lived  in  these  areas  liked  nothing  better  than  a  good 
fight,  and  were  prepared  to  go  to  any  lengths  to  keep  out  invaders.  Some 
of  them,  like  the  Huicholes  and  the  Zapotecs  whom  we  had  met,  were 
susceptible  to  a  high  degree  of  culture,  such  as  they  had  once  enjoyed. 
Others,  like  the  mixed  tribes  further  north  and  the  Marenos,  were  savages 
pure  and  simple. 

About  midnight  I  awoke  with  an  uneasy  feeling  that  some  one  was 
approaching  the  canoe.  I  cautiously  peeked  over  the  gunwale  just  in  time 
to  see  several  Marenos  coming  up  the  beach.  I  waited  quietly  as  they  drew 


258  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

nearer.  Then  pulling  the  sheet  over  my  head  I  slowly  rose  to  my  feet, 
and  with  the  barrel  of  the  Luger,  lifted  it  as  high  above  my  head  as  I  could 
reach.  The  thud  of  pounding  feet  on  the  sand  indicated  the  effect  of  this 
manoeuvre  on  our  visitors.  I  waited  a  moment  and  then  peeked  out  from 
under  the  sheet.  They  were  far  down  the  beach  and  still  running.  Ginger 
chuckled.  “We'll  probably  be  full  of  such  little  tricks  before  we’re  through 
with  the  Mareno  country.” 

Nothing  happened  throughout  the  rest  of  the  night,  and  soon  after  day¬ 
light  we  awakened  to  see  oxcarts  coming  down  the  beach  with  Juan  in  the 
lead.  After  a  hurried  breakfast,  we  placed  the  canoe  on  a  bed  of  tules  to 
protect  it  from  injury,  and  loading  the  equipment  on  the  other  cart,  started 
back  for  La  Ventosa.  Our  arrival  there  provided  our  friends  with  a  fine 
opportunity  for  much  good-natured  joking  and  a  grand  excuse  for  another 
fiesta. 

The  real  difficulty  started  when  we  tried  to  find  cartmen  to  make  the 
trip  to  Punta  de  Agua.  Part  of  the  way  lay  through  the  unfamiliar  Mareno 
country,  and  their  fear  of  these  Indians  was  genuine.  They  presented  us 
with  a  variety  of  reasons  why  it  was  imperative  for  them  to  remain  in  La 
Ventosa.  Illness  was  rampant  in  their  families;  there  were  other  important 
matters  pending  which  demanded  their  constant  presence  in  the  village. 
Finally  we  found  two  that  half-way  consented;  and  perhaps  emboldened  by 
the  bracing  effects  of  tequila ,  they  at  last  reluctantly  agreed  to  make  the 
trip. 

For  the  second  time  the  entire  village  turned  out  to  see  us  off  as  we  left 
La  Ventosa  at  daylight  on  the  morning  of  December  8,  1935,  bound  for  the 
lagoons.  Our  party  consisted  of  the  two  slightly  swacked  cartmen,  Ginger 
and  I,  and  Juan,  who  was  to  accompany  us  to  Punta  de  Agua.  We  had 
taken  extra  precautions  to  insure  the  safety  of  the  canoe  on  what  was  cer¬ 
tain  to  be  a  rough  journey.  It  was  lashed  securely  to  the  springless  carreta , 
where  it  rode  on  a  thick,  soft  bed  of  cornstalks,  its  bow  just  missing  the 
oxen,  and  its  stern  hanging  over  the  rear  of  the  cart.  The  second  cart 
carried  the  equipment. 

We  travelled  along  the  beach  for  two  miles  before  the  road  turned 
inland  to  follow  an  old  trade  route  which  roughly  paralleled  the  course  of 
the  Tehuantepec  River.  Where  the  road  turned  there  was  a  small  wayside 
shrine.  At  Juan's  request  we  accompanied  him  to  it  while  he  asked  for  a 
safe  journey  for  us.  Then  we  continued  in  the  wake  of  the  creaking  carts 
as  they  wound  in  and  out  among  the  stands  of  heavy  timber,  and  across  the 
hot  sands  of  dry  lake  beds.  At  ten  o’clock  we  met  a  picturesque  caravan  of 
oxcarts  bound  for  Salina  Cruz.  We  stopped  to  take  pictures,  and  to  ask 
for  directions.  When  the  drivers  learnt  that  we  were  going  into  the  Mareno 
country,  they  were  loud  in  their  fears  for  our  safety.  They  pointed  out, 
however,  a  pass  that  led  through  the  hills  on  the  other  side  of  the  Tehuan¬ 
tepec  River,  which  they  said  would  take  us  to  Punta  de  Agua. 


259 


The  hand  of  Primitive  Men 

We  crossed  the  river,  and  followed  a  faint  roadway  which  led  inland 
for  half  a  mile  through  heavy  brush.  Many  trails  made  by  the  woodcutters 
branched  oflf  from  it,  but  none  of  them  led  any  distance  from  the  river.  The 
road  ended  at  a  small  abandoned  ranch,  and  from  then  on  Juan  and  I  scouted 
the  route  through  the  brush,  cutting  a  trail  wide  enough  for  the  oxcarts  to 
follow.  This  was  a  slow,  tedious  task,  since  it  was  necessary  to  cut  a 
serpentine  course  round  the  many  obstacles  over  which  the  cumbersome 
carts  could  not  pass.  In  addition,  we  had  to  assist  them  over  fallen  logs, 
and  work  the  canoe  under  limbs  of  trees  that  were  too  big  for  us  to  cut. 
After  a  short  halt  for  lunch  we  continued  on  through  the  dense  growth  in 
the  general  direction  of  the  pass.  Then  we  came  to  a  deep  ditch.  "What  in 
the  world  is  this?"  I  asked  Juan. 

His  eyes  lighted.  "That  is  an  old  road  made  by  the  Spaniards.  Perhaps 
it  will  lead  us  to  Punta  de  Agua.  Let  us  follow  it." 

With  considerable  difficulty  we  eased  the  oxcarts  down  into  the  ditch. 
The  roadway  was  so  narrow  that  often  the  hubs  of  the  carts  rubbed  against 
the  vertical  banks,  but  the  cutting  was  easier  and  we  made  better  time.  It 
led  through  the  pass  in  the  hills,  and  far  ahead  we  could  see  the  glimmer  of 
water.  Our  hopes  rose  as  we  pushed  on  through  the  sultry  heat.  Even  the 
patient,  tired  oxen  seemed  to  take  a  new  interest  in  life.  The  road  entered 
heavily  wooded  country,  where  it  paralleled  the  course  of  a  small  stream. 
Through  the  trees  we  sighted  the  ruins  of  a  large  building,  and  Ginger 
and  I  stopped  to  explore  it  while  the  oxcarts  went  on  ahead.  It  had  probably 
been  built  in  the  time  of  the  Conquistadors,  for  its  massive  masonry  was 
similar  to  Cortez'  lighthouse  in  La  Ventosa.  The  great  stone  ruins  had  at 
one  time  probably  been  the  hacienda  of  some  Spanish  Don  who  dominated 
the  surrounding  country.  This  area  had  been  extensively  developed  by  the 
Spanish  after  the  Conquest,  and  there  is  enough  fertile  land  in  this  one 
section  alone  to  support  half  of  Mexico.  Today  its  hundreds  of  square  miles 
of  rich  soil  are  uncultivated,  and  practically  uninhabited.  After  a  hasty  sur¬ 
vey  we  hurried  on  to  rejoin  the  carts. 

The  ancient  roadway  led  us  directly  to  Punta  de  Agua  which  we  reached 
towards  sundown.  The  great  inland  sea,  its  muddy  waters  whipped  into 
foam  by  the  stiff  norther,  caused  us  considerable  misgiving.  The  oxen  were 
driven  close  to  the  water's  edge  while  the  canoe  was  unloaded  and  launched. 
As  we  transferred  our  things  from  the  cart  to  the  canoe,  we  sank  nearly 
to  our  knees  in  the  mud  of  its  oozy  bottom.  After  we  finished  loading,  we 
anchored  the  canoe  to  a  paddle  stuck  in  the  mud  and  waded  ashore  to  say 
good-bye  to  Juan  and  the  cartmen.  It  was  hard  to  find  words  which  would 
adequately  express  our  gratitude  for  all  Juan  had  done  for  us,  but  I  think 
he  knew  how  grateful  we  were.  We  waded  back  to  the  canoe,  washed  the 
mud  off  our  legs,  and  climbed  in,  while  Juan  and  the  cart  boys  stood  on  the 
beach  and  waved  good-bye. 

Pushing  with  our  paddles  on  the  muddy  bottom,  we  skirted  the  shore 


260  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

line  in  the  dusk.  The  wind  made  it  impossible  to  travel  any  distance  away 
from  the  slight  protection  it  offered.  The  muddy  water  splashed  over  us, 
and  the  force  of  the  blasts  often  made  it  necessary  to  stick  the  paddles  deep 
in  the  mud  to  keep  from  being  blown  backward.  But  this  was  the  life  we 
liked.  Let  the  wind  blow!  We  enjoyed  being  alone;  and  we  enjoyed  the 
sensation  of  facing  the  unknown  and  the  unpredictable.  Some  people,  I 
suppose,  are  so  constituted  that  hazards  are  incidental  to  a  special  kind  of 
pleasure  to  be  found  only  under  such  circumstances.  It  is  difficult  to  say 
truthfully  why  this  is  so.  Perhaps  it  is  the  necessity  for  fast  action,  or  never 
quite  knowing  in  advance  the  course  of  events,  that  lends  such  a  fascination 
to  these  ventures. 

A  small  shell  beach  in  the  shelter  of  dense  mangroves  offered  a  landing. 
We  tied  the  canoe  securely  to  a  log,  and  waded  ashore  with  our  supper — 
dried  fish  and  tortillas.  The  stories  of  the  Marenos  had  got  under  our  skins, 
and  though  we  had  seen  no  evidences  of  them,  we  had  an  uneasy  feeling 
that  they  were  watching  us.  Our  guns  were  swung  low  on  our  hips,  and 
our  trigger  fingers  were  decidedly  nervous.  Lighting  a  fire  might  attract 
unwelcome  attention,  so  we  ate  the  cold  food,  and  just  wished  for  hot 
coffee.  After  the  meal  we  sat  on  the  tiny  shell  beach  and  wondered  what 
our  next  move  would  be.  To  cross  the  pampa  (the  local  name  for  a  body 
of  water)  was  impossible  in  the  norther,  and  the  mudflats  made  it  equally 
difficult  to  cruise  near  the  shore.  Since  there  was  no  immediate  solution, 
and  nothing  else  to  do,  we  waded  out  to  the  canoe,  curled  up  in  the  cockpit, 
and  went  to  sleep. 

At  midnight  I  awakened  with  the  feeling  that  something  unusual  had 
happened.  There  was  a  profound  silence.  Then  I  knew — the  wind  had  gone 
down.  "Come  on,  Ginger,"  I  said,  "we're  going  to  travel."  She  mumbled 
something  about  being  sleepy,  squirmed  round  a  bit,  and  went  back  to 
sleep.  I  got  the  canoe  under  way  and  started  out  across  the  wide  pampa. 
Soon  the  canoe  grounded  on  a  mudflat,  and  I  got  out  and  pushed.  Then 
Ginger  waked  up  and  wanted  to  know  what  was  the  matter,  and  did  I  see 
any  Indians?  Assured  that  when  I  did  see  Indians  she  would  hear  the  Luger, 
she  went  back  to  sleep.  The  whole  lagoon  seemed  to  be  a  series  of  mudflats, 
and  I  alternately  pushed  and  paddled  the  way  across.  About  4  a.m.  I 
could  see  mangroves  ahead,  and  then  the  canoe  grounded  for  the  hundredth 
time  on  another  mudflat.  Pushing  did  no  good,  for  the  ooze  was  so  deep 
that  the  canoe  stuck  fast,  so  I  anchored  it  to  a  paddle  shoved  in  the  mud, 
washed  my  feet,  and  curled  up  in  the  cockpit. 

The  scream  of  the  wind  wakened  us  shortly  before  daylight.  The  tide 
had  come  in  and  the  canoe  was  afloat  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  off  shore. 
Even  though  we  were  in  the  lee  of  the  shore  it  was  difficult  to  make  head¬ 
way.  Shallow  water  and  mudflats  prevented  us  from  getting  close  enough 
to  the  beach  to  make  a  landing.  However,  there  is  nothing  like  the  thought 
of  a  hot  meal  after  having  walked,  pushed,  and  paddled  the  better  part  of 


- 


. 


263 


The  Land  of  Primitive  Men 

twenty-four  hours  since  the  last  one,  to  stimulate  one's  efforts.  So  we  got 
out  and  pulled  the  Vagabunda  until  we  came  to  a  small  channel  where  we 
could  drag  it  close  into  shore.  We  lost  no  time  in  hurrying  to  the  beach 
with  the  grub  box  and  cooking  equipment,  where  we  found  shelter  under 
a  mangrove. 

Restored  by  cups  of  hot,  bitter,  black,  strong  coffee  and  hot  food,  we 
went  for  a  hike  along  the  beach  after  breakfast,  hoping  to  find  game.  A 
small  ravine  led  to  the  top  of  a  low  ridge  from  which  we  had  an  excellent 
view  of  the  surrounding  country.  In  front  of  us  stretched  the  huge  expanse 
of  Laguna  Superior,  its  muddy  waters  beaten  to  a  froth  by  the  wind  that 
almost  swept  us  off  the  ridge.  The  high,  choppy  seas  breaking  on  its 
beaches  would  pound  a  small  boat  to  pieces,  and  we  were  glad  to  be  on 
the  lee  shore  of  the  smaller  body  of  water.  The  two  lagoons  were  separated 
by  a  narrow  strip  of  low,  brush-covered  sand  hills  not  more  than  fifty  yards 
wide.  We  stood  silently  looking  at  this  lost  world  of  wind  and  water, 
fringed  with  gnarled  mangrove  thickets.  The  norther  lashed  the  waters 
with  squalls  of  hurricane  violence,  and  tried  to  wrench  the  trees  from  their 
stubborn  grip  upon  the  ooze.  Further  along  the  ridge  we  saw  two  deer 
and  a  few  rabbits,  and  knew  that  fresh  water  must  be  near-by.  We  found 
a  clear,  sweet  spring  where  we  filled  our  canteens  before  going  back  to 
the  canoe.  Then  we  continued  on  down  the  lagoon. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  we  came  to  a  deep  bay  at  whose  upper  end  the 
sand  spit  widened  out  and  terminated  in  a  mountainous  cape.  It  took  all 
our  strength  to  hold  the  canoe  against  the  wind  that  raged  unchecked  down 
the  wide  expanse  of  Laguna  Inferior.  Near  the  head  of  the  bay  it  was  pos¬ 
sible  to  progress  only  by  walking  along  the  shore  with  each  of  us  holding 
on  to  the  doubled  anchor  line  tied  to  the  bow  of  the  canoe.  While  beating 
our  way  up  the  beach  we  saw  two  natives  dodge  into  the  brush  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  bay.  We  stopped  long  enough  to  get  out  extra  am¬ 
munition  and  clips  and  to  loosen  our  guns  in  their  holsters.  From  then  on, 
between  watching  the  brush  and  keeping  an  eye  on  the  canoe,  we  almost 
wore  out  our  necks.  But  the  natives  did  not  reappear. 

Burnt  by  the  wind  and  pelted  by  sand  and  flying  pebbles,  we  at  last 
rounded  the  bay,  where,  sheltered  by  the  lee  of  the  mountain,  we  could 
paddle  along  the  shore.  Towards  sundown  we  discovered  a  little  cove. 
After  anchoring  the  canoe  some  distance  from  the  beach — in  case  we  had 
to  leave  in  a  hurry — we  enjoyed  a  leisurely  swim  and  a  hot  supper.  For 
safety's  sake  we  slept  in  the  canoe  again,  anchoring  as  far  out  in  the  lagoon 
as  we  could  go  without  being  carried  off  by  the  wind.  There  was  little  to 
see,  for  great  clouds  of  spray  blotted  out  the  landscape  in  all  directions. 

Daylight  found  us  ashore  eating  breakfast.  After  preparing  a  lunch  to 
take  with  us,  we  continued  on  down  the  coast.  Our  precautions  of  the  day 
before  had  not  been  unwise,  for  as  we  rounded  the  point  of  the  cove,  we 
saw  ahead  a  great  stone  fort,  set  among  a  grove  of  palm  trees.  Near  it 


264  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

on  the  beach  were  native  dugouts  and  groups  of  naked  Indians.  The  chart 
called  the  place  San  Dionisio  Viejo.  While  we  were  fairly  itching  to  ex¬ 
amine  the  ancient  citadel,  it  seemed  unwise  to  disturb  its  present  occupants. 
By  detouring  as  far  from  shore  as  possible  we  hoped  to  sneak  by  them  un¬ 
noticed.  The  old  stronghold  had  probably  been  built  by  the  Conquistadors 
to  guard  the  entrance  channel  to  Laguna  Superior,  a  half  mile  above  the 
village.  Our  hopes  of  being  allowed  to  pass  unmolested  were  soon  dissi¬ 
pated.  As  we  passed  beyond  the  village  Ginger  said,  “Two  canoes  just 
shoved  off  the  beach  and  are  coming  our  way.”  I  looked  quickly  round. 
They  were  coming — and  fast — with  several  men  paddling  each  dugout. 

For  the  moment  the  Vagabunda  was  in  deep  water,  but  directly  ahead 
of  us  lay  a  shallow  expanse  of  lagoon,  flanked  by  the  shore  on  one  side  and 
a  dry  mudflat  on  the  other.  Beyond  the  broad  stretch  of  chocolate-coloured 
mud  and  water,  we  could  see  the  deeper  blue  of  the  open  channel.  A  hasty 
glance  convinced  us  that  an  attempt  to  skirt  the  barrier  by  making  a  right 
angle  turn  towards  the  centre  of  the  pampa  would  force  us  to  pass  in  front 
of  the  bows  of  the  oncoming  dugouts.  To  get  within  range  of  the  Indians' 
old  muzzle-loaders,  bad  marksmen  as  they  were,  was  out  of  the  question. 
Our  only  course  lay  straight  across  the  shallow  water. 

Now  we  were  in  the  shoals,  and  although  we  pushed  mightily  with  our 
paddles  against  the  soft  bottom,  the  canoe  grounded  a  short  distance  from 
deeper  water.  There  was  no  time  to  lose;  we  immediately  jumped  out  and 
began  pulling,  wading  up  to  our  knees  in  the  muck.  The  natives  were  a 
good  hundred  yards  behind,  and  since  their  dugouts  drew  more  water  than 
the  canoe,  I  had  a  feeling  that  they  might  have  trouble  on  their  own  account 
if  they  kept  on  following  us.  Within  a  few  minutes  we  heard  their  shouts 
of  rage  as  they  tried  to  drag  the  grounded  dugouts  through  the  mud.  Not 
that  it  stopped  them,  for  they  kept  right  on  coming.  It  was  evident  that 
these  gentlemen  meant  business.  We  were  almost  on  the  edge  of  the 
channel  when  I  noticed  something  that  made  me  laugh. 

"Well,  what's  so  funny?”  Ginger  demanded. 

"Look  behind  you,”  I  answered,  "and  then  look  at  the  channel.” 

"I've  looked  behind,”  she  answered  after  a  moment,  "and  it  isn’t  funny 
— they're  gaining  on  us.  There's  nothing  ahead  but  deep  water  and  wind.” 

"Which  way  is  the  tide  going?”  I  asked. 

"Out.  But  what  does  that  spell?”  she  puzzled.  Then  she  laughed  as  she 
noticed  the  fast-running  streams  pouring  off  the  shoal  into  the  channel. 
"Oh,  yes,  now  I  see.” 

Fate  had  provided  us  with  an  opportunity  too  good  to  miss.  We  decided 
that  we  were  entitled  to  a  little  fun.  The  tide  was  rapidly  receding,  and 
in  a  few  minutes  the  mudflat  would  be  as  dry  as  a  bone.  The  heavy  dugouts 
could  be  floated  with  the  next  tide,  but  not  before.  In  the  meantime,  our 
welcoming  committee  would  have  many  hours  in  which  to  meditate.  So 
we  put  on  a  heart-rending  spectacle  for  their  enjoyment.  The  canoe  be- 


265 


The  hand  of  Primitive  Men 

came  suddenly  immovable.  We  tugged  and  strained  and  groaned  aloud. 
Since  the  Indians  had  no  way  of  knowing  that  our  light  craft  weighed  less 
than  their  heavy  dugouts,  they  figuratively  threw  up  their  hats  for  joy 
at  this  supposed  misfortune.  By  now  we  had  the  canoe  in  open  water,  but 
we  kept  pulling  and  straining  at  the  astonished  Vagabunda  just  the  same. 
Without  further  ado  they  abandoned  their  dugouts,  waving  their  guns  and 
shouting,  as  they  wallowed  through  the  deep  mud  towards  us.  One  old 
fellow  in  the  lead  could  hardly  restrain  his  enthusiasm.  He  stopped  and 
raised  his  gun,  then  decided  that  the  distance  was  too  great  and  the  risk 
of  wasting  his  precious  ammunition  unnecessary.  We  delayed  climbing  into 
the  canoe  until  they  were  almost  within  gunshot  range.  Then  I  allowed 
myself  the  luxury  of  a  little  boy's  trick— the  classic  gesture  of  thumbing 
the  nose.  But  this  to  my  regret  was  wasted,  for  it  brought  no  response 
from  the  Marenos.  The  unexpected  sight  of  the  moving  canoe  brought 
plenty,  however.  They  screamed  with  rage  and  disappointment  as  we 
paddled  away  from  the  mudflat.  It  was  too  bad,  but  it  was  one  of  those 
situations  that  could  not  have  had  a  happy  ending  for  both  the  Marenos 
and  ourselves. 

It  was  an  out-of-the-frying-pan-into-the-fire  triumph,  for  as  soon  as  we 
lost  the  shelter  of  the  hill  we  were  in  the  full  force  of  the  norther.  The 
narrow  channel  between  the  lagoons  formed  a  funnel  through  which  the 
wind  blew  us  sideways  faster  than  we  could  paddle  ahead.  The  short  high 
seas  slapped  the  Vagabunda  s  thin  sides  with  such  violence  that  she  shook 
as  though  she  were  about  to  break  in  two.  The  cockpit  soon  filled  with 
water,  and  we  rode  so  low  that  each  wave  broke  over  us.  Half-way  across 
the  channel  we  sighted  a  sand  bar  running  out  from  the  point  on  its  opposite 
side.  This  was  good  news,  because  it  meant  that  we  could  run  before  the 
wind  towards  the  end  of  the  bar,  and  if  we  could  round  it,  could  then  work 
our  way  towards  the  protecting  shelter  of  the  lee  shore  of  Laguna  Inferior. 

As  we  ran  before  the  wind,  the  seas  boiled  over  the  canoe’s  stern  where 
I  perched  precariously.  Ginger  knelt  in  the  water-filled  cockpit,  paddling 
as  though  the  devil  were  after  her.  We  shot  round  the  end  of  the  sand  bar, 
where  we  still  had  the  wind  but  not  the  seas.  But  the  norther  seemed  de¬ 
termined  to  prevent  us  from  landing.  For  a  few  minutes  there  was  every 
likelihood  of  being  blown  out  into  the  open  pampa  and  pounded  to  pieces  in 
short  order.  Each  painful  gain  of  a  few  feet  was  cancelled  in  the  twinkling 
of  an  eye  by  the  wind.  A  slight  lull  eventually  gave  us  the  chance  we 
needed.  Gaining  the  bar,  we  rested  a  few  minutes,  and  bailed  out  the  cock¬ 
pit  before  continuing  on  towards  the  hills,  towing  the  canoe  close  inshore. 

After  a  long,  weary  walk  we  gained  the  shelter  of  the  hills  and  found 
respite  from  the  wind  in  a  tiny  cove  where  we  stopped  for  a  bite  to  eat. 
As  we  sat  in  the  sparse  shade  of  a  dwarf  tree  and  relaxed  our  tired  muscles, 
we  gazed  at  the  muddy,  wind-swept  lagoon.  Ahead  of  us  we  could  see  no 
land  in  any  direction.  Nothing  broke  the  monotony  of  the  hills  on  our  side 


266  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

of  the  landscape  except  a  few  purple  patches  of  some  flowering  vine  which 
grew  on  otherwise  barren  slopes.  The  whole  outlook  was  bleak  and  de¬ 
pressing,  and  unfriendly  beyond  anything  that  we  had  imagined.  Ginger 
sighed  as  she  suggested  that  we  had  better  move  on.  We  were  still  too 
near  the  Mareno  encampment  to  make  the  cove  a  healthy  place  in  which 
to  spend  the  night. 

Before  resuming  the  journey,  we  got  out  the  charts  and  studied  the  route 
by  which  we  hoped  to  travel  from  one  lagoon  to  another.  A  channel  ap¬ 
peared  to  connect  our  present  lagoon  with  the  one  due  south,  Mar  Muerto. 
But  there  was  no  waterway  shown  connecting  Mar  Muerto  with  the  big 
lagoon  called  Great  Painpa  which  lay  twenty  miles  beyond  it.  If  we  could 
not  find  a  way  across,  we  might  have  to  come  back  and  try  to  secure  ox¬ 
carts  with  which  to  make  the  portage  from  the  village  of  San  Francisco  del 
Mar,  located  on  the  map  near  the  lagoon's  sea  entrance.  The  idea  of  going 
to  San  Francisco  del  Mar  for  the  night  occurred  to  us,  but  sailing  across  the 
lagoon  in  the  norther  was  out  of  the  question,  and  to  get  there  we  would 
have  to  circumnavigate  the  great  bay.  We  decided  to  take  a  chance  and  go 
on  to  Mar  Muerto.  There  might  be  an  unmapped  native  village  on  its 
shores. 

The  canoe  made  good  time  under  double-reefed  sail.  Near  the  head  of 
the  bay  we  came  to  what  had  been  at  one  time  a  deep  estuary  at  the  mouth 
of  a  tidal  river,  with  an  extensive  breakwater  of  ancient  Spanish  masonry 
across  it.  The  narrow  channel  was  so  filled  with  silt  that  it  soon  became  too 
shallow  even  to  float  the  canoe.  We  turned  back,  tied  up  the  canoe,  and 
waded  out  to  inspect  the  breakwater.  It  was  a  substantial  piece  of  work 
about  ten  feet  wide  and  nearly  two  hundred  feet  long.  Probably  a  port  had 
once  existed  near-by,  and  the  sand  bars  which  had  converted  the  open 
ocean  into  lagoons  had  been  formed  at  a  later  date.  Somewhere,  undoubt¬ 
edly,  there  are  written  records  of  the  Spaniards'  activities  in  this  country 
which  ought  to  make  a  fascinating  story.  We  speculated  about  those  far-off 
days,  and  wondered  who  had  built  the  cities  which  no  longer  existed,  and 
why  they  had  been  abandoned.  The  old  fort,  the  breakwater,  and  other 
evidences  of  the  Spanish  occupation  were  thrilling  examples  of  their  enter¬ 
prise  and  daring.  We  recommend  this  strip  of  country  to  historical  novelists 
in  search  of  a  brand-new  setting. 

Since  we  could  discover  no  navigable  channel,  we  looked  round  for  fresh 
water  for  our  nearly  empty  canteens.  I  began  to  dig  a  shallow  well  on  the 
river  bank.  Frequently,  by  digging  a  few  feet  down  we  would  find  water 
that,  though  brackish,  could  be  used.  I  had  just  started  when  Ginger  came 
running  up  from  the  beach  where  she  had  been  prospecting  for  clams. 
"Dan,  Marenos!" 

We  washed  the  mud  off  our  hands  and  started  back  towards  the  canoe 
as  two  naked  natives  approached  it  from  the  beach.  Their  long  hair  was 
bound  by  a  dirty  rag  tied  round  their  heads.  Both  of  them  carried  single- 


267 


The  Land  of  Primitive  Men 

bladed  spears.  They  looked  over  the  canoe  and  the  gear  with  an  air  of 
insolent  ownership,  and  merely  grunted  in  response  to  my  greeting  of 
“Buenos  tardes ."  I  then  asked,  "Do  you  speak  Spanish?" 

"A  little,"  one  man  replied. 

I  told  them  that  we  were  seeking  a  passage  to  Mar  Muerto,  and  asked 
for  directions.  This  was  met  by,  "I  do  not  understand,"  and  a  demand  for  a 
cigarette.  A  vague  motion  towards  the  back  country  answered  my  question 
as  to  where  we  might  find  fresh  water.  Other  inquiries  produced  only  fur¬ 
ther  demands  for  cigarettes,  food,  fishline,  and  other  things.  Their  inces¬ 
sant  begging  became  irritating.  I  finally  offered  to  give  them  some  of  the 
things  they  wanted,  if  in  return  they  would  show  us  the  passage.  They 
could  talk  well  enough  when  it  suited  their  purpose,  and  one  man  an¬ 
swered,  "We  cannot  tell  you,  but  we  can  show  you  the  way." 

"That's  fine,"  I  said.  "Let's  go." 

Then  they  became  full  of  excuses.  "We  cannot  go  now.  Stay  with  us, 
and  in  the  morning  we  will  go  with  you."  This  was  accompanied  by  a 
rapid  exchange  of  glances  between  them. 

Ginger,  who  had  hung  back,  came  a  little  nearer.  She  was  dressed  in 
her  travelling  shorts,  and  I  didn't  care  in  the  least  for  the  way  both  men 
stared  at  her.  I  took  a  position  beside  the  canoe  where  I  could  keep  an  eye 
on  the  brush  back  of  the  beach.  One  Indian  fingered  the  harpoon  line.  "I 
want  this,"  he  said.  The  other  fingered  his  spear. 

"You'll  get  a  hell  of  a  lot  more  than  that,"  I  muttered  to  myself.  "Come 
on,  Ginger,  let's  get  out  of  here."  She  came  down  and  climbed  into  the 
canoe.  I  pulled  the  paddle  out  of  the  mud  and  untied  the  painter. 

"No,"  said  one  Indian,  stepping  closer  to  us. 

" Porque ?”  ("Why?")  I  asked. 

"This  is  our  country.  Stay  with  us,"  he  commanded. 

"Please  be  careful,  Dan.  Don’t  let’s  have  any  trouble  with  them,"  Gin¬ 
ger  urged.  "If  we  do,  they’ll  pass  the  word  on  ahead  and  we’ll  have  every 
Mareho  on  the  lagoon  looking  for  us,  and  we’ve  got  a  long  ways  to  go  in 
this  country." 

It  was  sound  advice.  "Listen,"  I  said  to  the  men,  "we  are  going  out  to 
fish,  and  will  return  here  tonight.  Tomorrow  you  may  show  us  the  passage 
to  the  other  lagoon." 

"Give  me  a  cigarette  first,"  one  man  demanded.  We  had  no  cigarettes, 
but  I  compromised  by  giving  them  each  a  leaf  of  raw  tobacco,  and  before 
they  could  argue  further,  we  were  off.  They  stood  watching  us  for  a  mo¬ 
ment,  their  faces  full  of  hatred  and  disgust.  Then  muttering,  they  turned 
and  walked  up  the  beach. 

Back  in  La  Ventosa  we  had  been  anxious  to  meet  the  Marenos.  Perhaps 
we  had  anticipated  a  little  of  our  usual  good  luck  in  dealing  with  natives, 
for  Ginger  had  a  way  with  the  women,  and  I  managed  well  enough  with 
the  men.  But  these  sons  of  Cain  made  the  Seris  and  other  reputedly  savage 


268  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

Indians,  seem  like  nice  people.  We  hoped  to  be  able  to  give  them  a  wide 
berth  in  the  future. 

Paddling  very  close  to  shore,  we  kept  a  sharp  lookout  for  a  passage  into 
Mar  Muerto.  Once  we  thought  we’d  found  it.  Upon  landing,  we  discovered 
that  although  there  was  another  lagoon,  separated  from  Laguna  Inferior 
only  by  a  narrow  strip  of  sand,  it  was  so  shallow  and  full  of  trees  that 
travelling  on  it  would  be  almost  impossible.  We  paddled  along  for  another 
five  miles  without  further  incident.  Then  we  saw  a  group  of  Marenos  run¬ 
ning  on  the  beach,  dodging  behind  sand  dunes.  We  slowed  down  a  bit  to 
observe  them.  Soon  they  were  way  ahead  of  us,  sprinting  for  dear  life 
down  the  sand  towards  a  grove  of  palm  trees  some  distance  ahead.  "More 
fun,"  I  said.  "Wonder  what  those  devils  are  up  to?" 

"They  probably  intend  to  hide  in  that  grove  until  we  come  along,  and 
then  try  to  hit  us.  They  have  guns  or  they  wouldn't  be  trying  a  stunt  like 
that,"  Ginger  answered. 

The  wind  was  at  our  backs,  so  we  shook  out  a  reef  in  the  sail  and  skimmed 
along  the  beach.  As  we  neared  the  clump  of  palms  we  changed  our  course 
to  get  further  away  from  shore  and  out  of  range.  Ginger  meanwhile  got 
out  the  clips  of  ammunition.  I  was  certain  that  we  were  out  of  range  of 
their  muzzle-loaders,  but  if  by  any  chance  they  had  got  hold  of  rifles,  we 
might  be  hit.  Ginger  was  philosophical.  "We’ve  been  shot  at  before  with¬ 
out  being  hit." 

"If  they  have  rifles,  we’ll  open  up  on  them,"  I  said  as  we  drew  opposite 
the  grove.  Now  the  Marenos  came  running  down  to  the  beach — five  men 
and  a  boy,  and  three  of  them  carried  guns.  At  the  water’s  edge,  they  raised 
the  guns  and  fired.  Puffs  of  black  powder  smoke  blotted  out  their  figures. 
Half-way  between  the  canoe  and  the  beach,  the  water  was  splattered  with 
shot. 

We  roared  with  laughter.  "You'd  better  be  careful,"  I  yelled  to  them 
in  Spanish,  "or  you’ll  shoot  off  your  toes." 

Ginger  settled  herself  in  the  cockpit.  "Just  sit  there  and  enjoy  the  show," 
I  said,  swinging  the  canoe  back  in  towards  the  beach.  The  natives  had 
momentarily  disappeared,  but  we  knew  that  they  had  by  no  means  aban¬ 
doned  the  hunt.  I  swung  inshore  as  close  as  I  dared. 

"Here  they  come,"  said  Ginger.  They  were  a  hundred  yards  behind, 
and  were  running  in  back  of  the  sand  dunes  towards  some  other  ambush. 
To  tease  them,  I  spilled  some  of  the  wind  from  the  sail  by  edging  a  shade 
nearer  the  shore,  and  slowed  down  a  bit.  When  they  were  nearly  abreast 
of  us,  we  turned  out  from  shore  and  ran  before  the  wind.  "I  think  you're 
mean,  Dan,"  said  Ginger,  as  I  alternately  raised  and  lowered  their  hopes 
by  zigzagging  down  the  beach.  Each  time  the  canoe  got  too  far  ahead,  we 
slowed  down  and  waited  for  them.  They  were  seemingly  tireless,  running 
on  mile  after  mile.  It  was  obvious  that  sooner  or  later  we  were  going  to 
have  trouble,  for  they  were  quite  capable  of  dogging  our  trail  until  they 


2  69 


The  hand  of  Primitive  Men 

did  catch  up.  I  felt  it  was  about  time  to  make  them  realize  that  we  could 
do  more  than  play,  and  swung  the  canoe  back  in  towards  the  beach.  “Now 
what  are  you  up  to?” 

“Let's  give  them  a  good  scare,”  I  answered.  “We'll  try  to  coax  them 
to  come  out  on  the  beach.  Then  while  you  tear  up  the  sand  to  the  right  of 
them,  I’ll  tear  it  up  to  the  left.  When  they  see  what  a  modern  gun  can  do, 
maybe  they'll  be  discouraged.  We'll  give  them  a  chance  to  get  ahead  of 
us  and  to  reload  their  guns.” 

They  passed  us,  but  when  we  drew  up  opposite  the  place  where  we'd 
last  seen  them,  they  were  nowhere  in  sight.  A  careful  examination  of  the 
shore  line  revealed  no  trace  of  them.  Ginger  suggested  that  perhaps  we 
had  tired  them  out  and  they  had  quit,  but  I  had  a  feeling  that  they  were  not 
so  easily  discouraged.  We  should  have  settled  with  them  sooner.  It  was 
late  in  the  afternoon  and  we  had  yet  to  find  water  and  a  place  in  which  to 
spend  the  night. 

Ahead  of  us,  a  point  of  land  extended  out  some  distance  into  the  lagoon. 
I  shaped  the  course  to  round  it,  and  settled  down  to  the  business  of  sailing. 
As  we  neared  it,  something  told  me  to  give  the  place  a  wide  berth.  I  swung 
further  out  into  the  pampa ,  and  then  noticed  that  just  off  the  point  a  big 
mudflat  extended  out  into  the  bay,  with  a  channel  between  the  two.  It 
would  take  at  least  a  half  hour  to  sail  round  the  flat.  “How  about  it?”  I 
asked  Ginger.  “Shall  we  take  a  chance  on  the  channel?” 

“It's  pretty  close  to  shore,”  she  demurred,  “but  let's  try  it.”  We  swung 
into  the  channel,  hugging  the  seaward  side  to  put  as  much  distance  be¬ 
tween  ourselves  and  the  point  as  possible.  Too  late,  we  saw  that  the  chan¬ 
nel  was  narrower  than  it  had  appeared  at  a  distance. 

“I  don't  like  the  look  of  this  at  all,”  I  said,  and  began  laying  out  extra 
clips.  Ginger  crouched  in  the  cockpit  beside  me.  We  were  not  a  moment 
too  soon.  As  we  drew  abreast  of  the  point,  the  Marenos  came  running  out 
on  the  beach.  We  were  well  within  their  range.  “Let  them  have  it,”  I 
shouted.  We  placed  our  shots  as  close  on  each  side  of  them  as  we  dared, 
and  they  started  dancing  as  though  the  sand  had  become  red  hot.  They 
streaked  for  the  shelter  of  the  sand  dunes.  We  contented  ourselves  with 
kicking  up  sand  from  the  tops  of  the  dunes  for  a  minute  or  two  before 
scooting  out  of  the  channel. 

Laying  our  hot  guns  in  the  cockpit  to  cool,  we  collected  and  reloaded 
the  empty  clips.  “You  know,  Dan,  I  used  to  think  we  were  romanticizing 
a  bit  back  home  when  we  spent  hours  practising  to  do  these  things  in  a 
hurry,”  Ginger  commented. 

In  retrospect,  I  could  see  the  two  of  us  down  in  the  arbour  by  the  fish 
pond  back  in  Santa  Ana,  loading  clips  and  firing  at  targets  for  all  we  were 
worth.  My  mother  sometimes  came  to  watch  us,  and  I  could  hear  her  say, 
“Children,  it's  time  for  lunch.  Don’t  you  think  you’ve  done  shooting 


270  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

enough  for  one  day?”  Long  ago  and  a  world  away  seemed  that  pleasant 
garden  in  Southern  California. 

A  string  of  mangroves  threading  their  way  inland  revived  our  hopes  of 
finding  a  channel  to  Mar  Muerto.  This  might  be  the  passage.  Upon  in¬ 
vestigation  it  turned  out  to  be  a  deep  channel,  perhaps  a  hundred  yards 
wide,  which  wound  in  and  out  among  the  mangroves  in  the  general  direc¬ 
tion  of  the  lagoon  that  we  were  seeking.  We  pulled  the  canoe  across  the 
shallow  water  at  its  mouth  and  started  down  the  passage.  The  sun  was 
low  on  the  horizon,  and  both  of  us  had  a  feeling  that  it  was  wise  to  make 
haste.  To  be  caught  by  the  Marenos  in  the  channel  after  dark  might  have 
unpleasant  consequences.  We  were  within  range  from  either  shore,  and 
as  we  advanced  the  waterway  narrowed.  Dense  walls  of  vegetation  pressed 
close  upon  it,  throwing  long  shadows  over  the  constricted  stream.  Then 
ahead  of  us  as  we  rounded  a  bend,  we  saw  two  natives  in  a  canoe  just  dis¬ 
appearing  round  another  bend.  We  stopped,  looked  at  each  other,  and 
took  counsel.  “I'm  afraid  it's  run  or  fight,"  I  said. 

“If  you're  game  to  go  ahead,  I  am,"  Ginger  answered. 

We  continued  down  the  winding  ribbon  of  dark  water,  carefully  scan¬ 
ning  both  shore  lines.  Every  nerve  and  muscle  tensed  as  we  approached 
each  possible  ambuscade.  But  nothing  rewarded  our  straining  eyes  and 
ears  until,  while  negotiating  a  sharp  bend  in  the  channel,  we  heard  a  loud 
crash  in  the  brush.  Instantly  I  started  firing  in  that  direction.  “Hold  it!" 
Ginger  shouted  above  the  fusillade.  “That  was  just  an  alligator." 

I  felt  sheepish.  “I  don’t  know  what  policy  to  adopt.  Should  we  shoot 
first,  and  then  look,  or  look  first  and  then  shoot?" 

At  last  we  emerged  from  the  channel  to  see  before  us  the  wide  expanse 
of  Mar  Muerto  (sometimes  called  Laguna  Cerro  Blanco).  Weariness  and 
depression  followed  quickly  our  relief  from  tension.  What  were  we  going 
to  do?  Now  that  we  were  here,  where  could  we  go?  The  great  landlocked 
lagoon  looked  like  a  dead  sea.  Its  black  shore  line  offered  slight  hope  of 
sanctuary,  and  perhaps  concealed  a  multitude  of  unknown  dangers.  How 
were  we  going  to  get  the  canoe  over  the  twenty  miles  of  jungle  that  lay 
between  this  and  the  next  lagoon?  If  we  had  to  go  back  through  the  narrow 
channel  and  down  the  shores  of  Laguna  Inferior  to  San  Francisco  del  Mar, 
would  our  good  luck  hold?  At  that  moment  we  had  no  reserves  with  which 
to  face  the  future.  We  needed  hot  coffee  and  a  hot  meal,  but  they  weren't 
worth  a  battle  with  the  Marenos,  so  we  decided  to  anchor  for  the  night 
on  the  pampa.  The  norther  had  gone  down  and  the  surface  of  the  water 
was  like  a  polished  obsidian  mirror  as  we  paddled  towards  the  centre  of 
the  lagoon. 

“Dan,  look  shorewards!"  I  turned  quickly  at  Ginger’s  urgent  tone.  A 
paddle  flashed  faintly  in  the  slanting  rays  of  the  sun. 

“Oh,  Lord!"  I  said;  “if  we're  going  to  have  more  trouble  let's  get  it 
over  with  before  dark.  We'd  better  go  to  them,  before  they  come  to  us." 


271 


The  hand  of  Primitive  Men 

With  that  we  started  inshore  at  an  angle,  trying  to  overtake  the  canoe. 
As  we  approached  it  we  could  see  that  some  one  on  the  stern  was  poling, 
and  some  one  else  paddling  at  the  bow.  They  were  making  good  time,  and 
as  we  drew  nearer,  they  speeded  up.  In  spite  of  our  efforts,  the  distance 
remained  about  even.  Then  they  pulled  out  into  the  full  rays  of  the  setting 
sun.  Ginger  stopped  paddling,  and  said  that  she  was  either  seeing  things, 
or  the  men  in  the  dugout  wore  clothes.  We  redoubled  our  efforts  to  catch 
them,  but  they  seemed  equally  determined  not  to  be  caught.  Finally  they 
began  to  slow  down,  and  the  distance  between  us  narrowed.  We  passed  on 
the  western  shore  the  white  limestone  headland  that  gave  the  lagoon  the 
name  by  which  it  is  sometimes  called,  Cerro  Blanco  (White  Hill).  The  dug- 
out  ahead  of  us  entered  a  wide  channel  lined  with  mangroves.  The  men 
were  poling  and  paddling  frantically,  but  they  were  having  difficulty  of 
some  kind,  for  their  pace  grew  slower  and  slower.  We  gained  on  them 
rapidly.  Soon  we  were  near  enough  to  see  that  they  were  trying  to  work 
through  a  dense  growth  of  swamp  grass,  which  extended  across  the  wide 
arm  of  water  towards  which  they  were  travelling.  Seemingly  badly  fright¬ 
ened  by  our  efforts  to  catch  them,  they  would  look  occasionally  in  our 
direction,  and  then  renew  their  desperate  efforts  to  force  a  way  through  the 
entangling  growths.  As  soon  as  we  came  within  hailing  distance,  I  shouted 
reassuringly,  “Hold,  amigos /”  They  stopped  poling  in  open-mouthed  sur¬ 
prise.  We,  too,  had  difficulty  when  we  struck  the  grass  and  tried  to  work 
the  canoe  closer  to  them.  The  dugout  poled  back  to  meet  us,  and  we  saw 
that  it  contained  an  old  man  and  a  boy. 

“Oh,”  said  the  old  fellow  in  a  relieved  voice,  “we  were  afraid  that  you 
were  Marenos.” 

We  confessed  that  we  also  feared  them  for  the  same  reason.  After  telling 
them  who  we  were  and  what  we  were  doing  in  the  lagoon,  we  asked  them 
if  they  knew  of  a  safe  place  near-by  in  which  to  spend  the  night. 

“We  are  going  to  the  village  of  San  Francisco  del  Mar,”  said  the  old 
man,  “and  if  you  will  follow,  we  will  lead  you  to  it.” 

Since  our  chart  showed  the  village  to  be  at  the  sea  entrance  of  Laguna 
Inferior,  I  was  puzzled.  But  the  old  man  stoutly  affirmed  that  the  chart  was 
wrong  and  that  San  Francisco  del  Mar  was  just  round  the  bend  on  Mar 
Muerto.  He  started  poling  through  the  tangled  grass  with  the  Vagabunda 
on  his  heels.  We  finally  emerged,  and  after  rounding  a  small  tree-covered 
point,  came  upon  a  number  of  canoes  tied  to  poles  stuck  in  the  mud.  Above 
the  beach,  said  the  old  man,  lay  the  village  of  San  Francisco  del  Mar. 

Long  before  we  reached  the  mooring  place  of  the  native  dugouts,  the 
lagoon  became  so  shallow  that  it  was  necessary  for  us  to  get  out  and  wade 
through  the  soft  mud,  pulling  the  canoe  after  us.  We  dragged  it  within 
twenty-five  yards  of  the  shore  before  anchoring  it  to  a  paddle  stuck  in  the 
ooze,  but  the  old  man  was  forced  to  leave  his  heavier  craft  further  away. 

While  we  waited  for  him  to  join  us,  we  looked  for  signs  of  life  from  the 


272  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

village,  which  lay  silent  and  concealed  behind  a  grove  of  trees.  No  one  came 
near  the  beach;  and  there  were  none  of  the  usual  small  sounds  of  an  Indian 
village  at  dusk — the  clatter  of  cooking  pots,  and  the  voices  of  women  busy 
about  their  fires.  This  might  mean  anything,  but  it  generally  meant  trou¬ 
ble.  The  old  man  reached  our  side  and  explained  that  the  absence  of  the 
villagers  was  probably  due  to  the  fact  that  they  were  frightened  by  the 
approach  of  strangers,  who  never  came  to  San  Francisco  del  Mar.  He 
would  go  on  ahead  and  assure  them  that  we  meant  no  harm.  He  plodded 
away  through  the  mud  towards  the  beach.  While  giving  our  ambassador 
time  to  precede  us,  we  got  out  a  supply  of  fishhooks  and  needles  for  gifts, 
and  stuffed  extra  clips  of  ammunition  in  our  pockets.  Thus  prepared  tor  the 
quality  of  our  reception,  we  waited  until  we  heard  the  old  fellow  shouting 
and  a  babel  of  answering  voices.  “Come  on/'  I  said,  “let’s  make  the  ac¬ 
quaintance  of  San  Francisco  del  Mar.” 

Half-way  up  the  beach  we  were  met  by  a  procession  of  natives  led  by  the 
old  man,  the  women  holding  their  dresses  high  above  their  knees  as  they 
splashed  through  the  muck.  “I  have  told  them  of  your  strange  boat,”  he 
said  when  we  came  abreast,  “and  they  are  anxious  to  see  it." 

Back  to  the  canoe  we  went,  with  a  crowd  of  at  least  fifty  chattering  na¬ 
tives  at  our  heels.  They  thumped  the  V agabunda  s  canvas  deck  with  their 
knuckles,  and  asked  innumerable  questions  in  a  mixture  of  very  bad  Span¬ 
ish  and  some  unknown  native  tongue.  Our  Spanish  seemed  equally  unin¬ 
telligible  to  them.  This  was  partly  due  to  the  fact  that  the  Spanish  language 
undergoes  strange  transformations  at  the  hands  of  the  Indians.  Such  a  word, 
for  example,  as  pampa ,  which  means  a  body  of  water  when  used  by  the 
Indians  of  the  Isthmus,  comes  to  mean  a  grassy  plain  as  one  travels  further 
south.  Our  conversational  difficulty  was  solved  when  a  young  fellow  who 
had  just  arrived  stepped  up  and  said,  “Perhaps  I  can  help  you.  I  am  from 
Tonala,  and  speak  good  Spanish."  We  explained  to  him  that  we  were  en 
route  from  Salina  Cruz  to  Champerico,  that  we  had  come  from  the  North, 
and  so  forth.  He  translated  to  the  crowd,  who  buzzed  with  excitement. 
After  he  had  finished,  he  said,  “My  name  is  Enrique.  I  am  the  village 
storekeeper.  Come  to  my  house  and  we  will  have  supper  and  talk." 

We  had  been  up  before  dawn,  and  every  minute  of  the  long  day  had 
been  filled  with  excitement  and  hard  physical  labour.  The  thought  of  hot 
food  lent  strength  to  our  tired  limbs  as  we  plodded  after  him  to  his  house, 
which  was  also  the  store,  where  we  were  greeted  by  his  plump,  pretty 
bride,  Teresa.  They  were  both  youngsters,  neither  one  of  them  looking 
over  eighteen.  While  Teresa  went  to  the  communal  kitchen  to  prepare 
the  food — several  families  shared  the  same  kitchen  because  of  the  scarcity 
of  firewood — Enrique  produced  some  crude  trestles  for  seats.  These  could 
also  be  converted  into  beds,  he  said,  by  spreading  a  bamboo  pole  mat  across 
them.  Then  he  lighted  a  smudge  to  keep  off  the  mosquitoes,  who  were 
“ muy  bravo "  according  to  Enrique. 


273 


The  Land  of  Primitive  Men 

He  then  told  us  about  the  village.  It  was  very  old  and  the  graveyard 
was  very  big.  This  did  not  mean  that  the  place  was  unhealthy,  he  said.  On 
the  contrary,  it  was  very  sano ,  but  the  graveyard  had  been  there  for  many 
years.  The  dry  wind  of  the  norther  swept  across  the  country  incessantly, 
and  kept  the  climate  good  and  the  air  free  from  insects,  which  could  not 
live  in  its  blasts.  Of  course  this  did  not  mean  the  mosquitoes,  who  could 
live  any  place. 

Then  Teresa  produced  what  seemed  a  banquet  to  us,  and  what  we  found 
out  later  was  indeed  a  banquet  for  San  Francisco  del  Mar.  The  meal  con¬ 
sisted  of  eggs,  stewed  in  a  sauce  of  tomatoes  and  chili,  tortillas,  fried  rice, 
fried  beans,  and  good  hot  coffee.  We  ate  it  with  keen  appreciation. 

During  the  meal  we  could  hear  voices  outside  the  hut,  and  by  the  time 
we  had  finished  a  big  crowd  had  collected.  Enrique  said  that  they  had  never 
before  seen  white  people.  They  were  particularly  fascinated  by  the  colour 
of  Ginger’s  hair,  which  the  sun  had  bleached  to  a  straw  yellow,  and  they 
marvelled  at  its  short  length.  The  youngsters  would  come  up  solemnly, 
touch  her,  and  as  solemnly  move  away  to  make  room  for  the  next  young¬ 
ster.  Finally  she  went  outside  the  hut  to  give  her  audience  a  better  chance 
to  look  at  her,  since  they  could  not  all  crowd  in.  Soon  I  heard  shouts  of 
laughter  from  among  the  women,  and  went  out  to  investigate.  One  old 
woman,  whose  name  was  Carmen,  and  who  looked  like  the  traditional 
witch,  had  the  centre  of  the  stage.  She  was  the  spokeswoman  for  the  group, 
and  she  had  asked  Ginger  why  she  liked  Mexico.  Ginger  replied,  because 
she  liked  the  warm  climate,  the  “ tier r a  del  sol ”  (land  of  the  sun).  This  had 
produced  the  volleys  of  laughter.  Old  Carmen  announced  that  in  their  na¬ 
tive  language  sol  meant  pig! 

At  last,  pleading  our  very  real  weariness,  we  went  back  to  the  canoe, 
accompanied  by  Enrique  and  about  fifteen  others.  Streams  of  people  had 
evidently  been  going  out  to  the  boat  all  evening,  for  a  deep  channel  had 
been  cut  through  the  mud,  and  we  were  forced  to  make  a  wide  detour  to 
reach  it.  Everything  on  deck  had  been  examined,  but  nothing  taken.  We 
spread  out  the  bag  in  the  cockpit  and  lay  down,  but  we  were  not  to  be  rid 
of  our  audience  so  easily.  One  group  departed  only  to  make  room  for  a 
new  contingent.  This  went  on  until  about  eleven  o’clock,  when  things 
quieted  down. 

Ginger  had  fallen  asleep  and  I  was  dozing,  when  I  heard  more  splashing. 
I  peeked  over  the  cockpit  to  see  three  men,  armed  with  machetes  and  shot¬ 
guns,  approaching  the  canoe  as  quietly  as  was  possible  through  the  sucking 
ooze.  I  picked  up  the  Luger  and  held  it  under  the  railing,  aimed  at  them. 
When  they  were  quite  near,  I  sat  up  and  said,  “Buenos  noches .” 

“Buenos  noches ,”  they  replied.  “We  want  to  see  your  commission.” 

I  replied  that  we  had  no  commission,  and  that  I  did  not  know  what  they 
meant.  Ginger  began  wiggling.  I  nudged  her  to  be  quiet.  “Senores,  you 
have  made  a  mistake,”  I  said.  “We  are  travellers  and  nothing  else.” 


274  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

“Oh,  yes,  you  have  a  commission,  and  we  want  to  see  it,"  they  repeated. 
“Just  why  would  you  come  to  San  Francisco  del  Mar  if  you  have  no  com¬ 
mission?  Tell  us  that!’*  they  persisted.  The  men  were  becoming  ugly, 
fingering  their  machetes  in  a  suggestive  manner.  I  could  think  of  no  other 
answer  to  give  them,  except  to  repeat  my  denial  that  we  had  come  to  the 
village  for  any  ulterior  purpose.  “Senor,  it  is  useless  to  deny  that  you  have 
a  commission,  and  we  are  here  to  see  it.  En  que forma  viene?”  (“In  what 
form  do  you  come?”)  the  spokesman  repeated. 

“Senores,"  I  said,  “please  believe  me  when  I  tell  you  that  we  come 
only  as  friends,  and  to  receive  your  protection  against  the  Marenos.  From 
whom  should  we  receive  a  commission?" 

“The  government,  of  course,"  they  replied.  “Who  else?" 

We  argued  back  and  forth  for  an  hour.  Then  I  delivered,  what  was  to 
them,  the  crucial  argument.  “Do  you  think,"  I  said,  “that  if  we  had  a  com¬ 
mission,  we  would  sleep  in  this  canoe?  Of  course  not.  We  would  sleep  in 
the  best  house  in  the  village."  Since  the  “servants  of  the  people"  are  no 
more  modest  in  Mexico  than  elsewhere  in  demanding  the  best  of  every¬ 
thing  for  themselves,  this  was  conclusive  proof  (as  indeed  it  ought  to  be) 
that  we  were  simply  tourists. 

Then  everybody  laughed,  and  we  all  shook  hands.  They  explained  that  a 
“commission"  meant  a  tax  collector,  or  some  one  who  had  come  to  spy 
on  the  churches,  to  see  whether  the  priests  were  holding  secret  masses.  We 
parted  friends,  and  they  marched  off  through  the  mud.  Once  again  we  set¬ 
tled  down  for  some  much-needed  sleep. 

Fortunately  we  had  gone  to  sleep  with  our  clothes  on,  for  daylight 
brought  a  new  procession  of  visitors,  who  began  arriving  in  the  midst  of 
my  morning  shave.  They  were  entranced  by  my  soap-covered  jaws,  and 
the  shiny  thing  with  which  I  scraped  my  face.  I  suppose  it  did  look  strange 
to  the  scant-bearded  Indians.  We  finished  our  toilettes  under  the  scrutiny 
of  fifty  pairs  of  curious  eyes.  Then  we  found  ourselves  unable  to  leave  the 
canoe  because  of  the  churned-up  mud.  This  was  explained  to  the  audience, 
who  with  much  laughter  dragged  the  canoe  to  a  new  anchorage,  where  the 
mud  was  firmer. 

The  news  that  we  were  without  “commissions"  had  apparently  gone 
the  rounds,  for  the  people  were  even  friendlier  than  they  had  been  the 
previous  evening.  We  waded  with  our  escort  up  to  the  beach,  where  En¬ 
rique  was  waiting  for  us  with  an  invitation  to  breakfast.  Then  we  were 
deluged  with  invitations  to  breakfast,  but  we  accompanied  Enrique  to  his 
house,  where,  according  to  the  standards  of  San  Francisco  del  Mar,  Teresa 
had  prepared  a  lavish  meal.  This  consisted  of  a  dried  fish  apiece,  which  had 
been  broiled  over  the  coals,  an  egg,  and  a  large  toasted  tortilla.  Here  eggs 
and  corn  are  a  luxury,  since  there  is  very  little  land  suitable  for  farming. 
The  main  dish  consists  of  fish,  eaten  regularly  three  times  a  day. 

While  we  were  at  breakfast,  trading  started  in  Enrique's  little  store.  I 


The  Land  of  Primitive  Men  275 

saw  no  money  change  hands,  dried  fish  and  fish  roe  being  the  only  medium 
of  exchange.  All  the  supplies  for  the  village  had  to  be  hauled  from  Juchitan, 
we  were  told,  six  days  distant  by  oxcart.  Though  it  was  only  two  days' 
travel  by  water,  the  natives  preferred  the  longer  haul  over  the  awful  roads 
to  running  the  gauntlet  of  Marenos,  who  patrolled  the  waterways,  con¬ 
stantly  on  the  lookout  for  the  unwary  traveller. 

After  breakfast  we  went  for  a  stroll  through  the  village.  It  was  a  curious 
place  of  perhaps  fifty  huts,  each  one  crowning  a  rather  high  mound.  These 
mounds  are  all  that  are  left  of  the  ancient  buildings  erected  by  the  Span¬ 
iards.  In  the  centre  of  the  village  was  a  ruined  church,  with  two  of  its 
arches  still  in  place.  Water  was  obtained  from  an  old  well  of  Spanish 
masonry,  near  the  church.  All  over  the  village,  especially  near  the  higher 
mounds,  we  found  pieces  of  broken  pottery.  Some  of  it  was  of  recent  origin, 
but  most  of  it  was  of  a  thin,  dark  type,  different  from  any  now  in  use.  No 
one  could  tell  us  how  old  the  village  really  was,  but  we  gained  some  idea 
by  going  to  the  graveyard.  It  was  immense  for  the  size  of  the  village,  and 
many  of  the  older  monuments  were  of  Spanish  design  and  workmanship. 
Some  of  them  had  deep  recesses,  in  which  a  tiny  altar  could  be  set  up  and 
candles  lighted,  safe  from  the  blasts  of  the  wind.  The  wind-driven  sand 
had  eroded  most  of  the  dates  from  the  earlier  stones,  but  we  did  find  one 
dated  1702  which  was  still  legible.  There  were  a  few  trees,  their  branches 
growing  only  on  the  south  side,  evidence  of  the  norte  which  blows  con¬ 
tinuously.  Since  there  was  little  else  to  see  in  the  village,  we  returned  to 
Enrique's,  with  the  curious  crowd  still  at  our  heels. 

We  had  a  whole  day  before  us,  and  decided  to  spend  it  trying  to  find 
out  something  of  the  lagoon  country  ahead  of  us.  But  no  two  people  had 
the  same  story  to  tell.  Some  said  that  it  was  only  two  miles  to  the  next 
lagoon,  Great  Pampa,  and  that  there  was  a  trail  all  the  way.  Others  were 
sure  that  it  was  much  further,  that  there  was  no  trail,  and  that  the  jungle 
was  impassable.  Still  others  doubted  the  existence  of  the  lagoon  at  all! 

I  suggested  to  Enrique  that  we  go  and  see  the  Presidente ,  who  might  be 
better  informed;  but  alas,  he  was  away  fishing  and  was  not  expected  to 
return  until  the  following  day. 

Ginger  then  suggested  that  it  might  be  a  good  idea  to  find  out  some¬ 
thing  for  ourselves  by  climbing  to  the  top  of  the  limestone  headland,  Cerro 
Blanca.  Teresa  fixed  a  lunch  for  us  and  we  were  off.  The  norther  was  noth¬ 
ing  more  than  a  stiff  breeze  when  we  started  paddling  to  the  west  side  of 
the  lagoon.  On  the  way  over,  we  changed  into  our  travelling  shorts  to  pre¬ 
serve  our  shore  clothes  against  the  wear  and  tear  of  climbing  rocks.  Then 
the  sky  to  the  north  began  to  darken,  and  another  wind  was  on  its  way. 

Anchoring  the  canoe  some  distance  from  shore,  we  waded  towards  the 
towering  mass  of  limestone  blocks.  We  had  to  hack  a  way  through  the 
jungle  before  we  could  begin  the  ascent.  On  the  lagoon  side,  the  great 
stone  slabs  offered  no  foothold,  so  we  cut  a  trail  to  the  seaward  side  of  the 


276  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

hill.  Here,  with  caution,  the  rock  could  be  climbed.  Half-way  up  its  broken 
surface  the  wind  began  to  roar  On  the  lee  side  we  still  had  some  protection 
from  the  blasts;  but  as  we  neared  the  crest,  and  worked  our  way  round  to 
the  east  side  where  we  could  see  the  canoe,  the  wind  became  so  strong  that 
we  dared  not  leave  the  shelter  of  the  big  boulders.  The  canoe  was  riding  on 
a  lake  of  white  foam.  Whirling  clouds  of  spray  danced  in  the  grip  of  the 
wind,  to  dissolve  at  last  into  needle-fine  mist  as  they  dashed  against  the 
western  foreshore.  Even  high  up  in  our  eagle's  aerie,  the  rocks  and  our 
faces  were  wet  with  spume.  But  we  were  unable  to  gain  a  complete  view  of 
the  country  unless  we  climbed  a  pinnacle  peak  which  blocked  the  horizon 
to  the  south.  It  was  a  mad  and  dangerous  scramble  up  the  steep  incline, 
with  each  blast  of  the  wind  trying  to  dislodge  us.  At  last  we  gained  the 
shelter  of  a  ledge  from  which  the  vast  panorama  could  be  seen  in  its  en¬ 
tirety.  Between  Mar  Muerto  and  Great  Pampa  stretched  an  immense  tree- 
covered  plain.  It  appeared  to  be  an  impenetrable  barrier  to  our  passage, 
unless  we  could  prevail  upon  some  one  to  transport  the  canoe  and  equip¬ 
ment  the  intervening  distance.  But  who  in  the  village  would  dare  to  venture 
into  Mareilo  country?  One  glance  seaward  at  the  rough  waters  of  the  gulf 
was  enough  to  discourage  any  thought  of  travel  by  sea.  The  great  inland 
bays  through  which  we  had  come  since  leaving  La  Ventosa  were  equally 
perilous,  and  in  reality  offered  no  retreat,  since  there  was  no  way  of  trans¬ 
porting  the  canoe  from  Agua  Punta  to  the  coast. 

We  made  our  way  down  the  lee  side  of  the  hill  in  silence.  As  we  pushed 
out  of  the  dense  growth  and  stepped  on  to  the  beach,  the  blasts  of  wind 
almost  drove  us  back  into  the  shrubbery  again.  To  walk,  let  alone  paddle, 
was  all  but  impossible.  “How  in  the  world,”  asked  Ginger,  “are  we  ever 
going  to  get  back  to  the  village?” 

I  had  no  immediate  solution  to  offer,  but  led  the  way,  while  Ginger 
pushed  me  from  behind,  towards  the  canoe.  She  climbed  in,  and  I  managed 
to  pull  the  paddles  out  of  the  mud.  Before  I  had  a  chance  to  join  her,  a  heavy 
gust  struck  the  canoe  and  it  veered  quickly  round  to  one  side.  I  grabbed 
and  tried  to  hold  it  with  the  anchor  line,  but  a  wind-driven  wave  slapped 
me  in  the  pants  and  down  I  went,  the  canoe  dragging  me  through  the  slimy, 
matted  grass  and  water.  Somehow  I  managed  to  dig  in  my  heels,  and  stop 
the  wildly  curvetting  Vagabunda.  A  second  wave  deposited  a  chaplet  of 
swamp  grass  on  my  head,  and  festooned  a  lei  of  the  stuff  round  my  neck. 
Ginger,  who  had  struggled  with  her  merriment  over  the  first  mishap,  made 
no  effort  to  conceal  her  hysterical  laughter  over  my  appearance. 

“Quit  laughing,  and  get  out  and  shove!”  I  shouted. 

With  a  noble  effort  she  restrained  her  mirth,  and  after  unstrapping  her 
gun,  joined  me  in  the  muddy  water.  My  precious  Luger,  which  was  as 
plastered  with  mud  as  I  was,  I  also  placed  in  the  canoe.  Together  we  fought 
our  way  across  the  shallow  lagoon.  I  tugged  the  canoe  from  the  bow,  while 
Ginger  shoved  it  from  the  stern.  Every  so  often,  a  sea  higher  than  the  rest 


277 


The  Land  of  Primitive  Men 

would  knock  me  down,  and  the  boat  would  swing  broadside  to  the  waves, 
dragging  us  both  through  the  liquid  mud  until  we  could  regain  our  footing. 
The  smaller  waves  were  content  to  break  on  my  stomach,  which  became 
sore  from  their  pounding.  After  what  seemed  hours,  we  reached  the  lee 
shore  and  calmer  water.  We  beached  the  canoe  and  went  in  for  a  swim  to 
wash  off  the  mud.  Then  Ginger  took  a  kettle  of  water  and  her  shore  clothes 
into  the  seclusion  of  the  bushes,  and  soon  emerged  spick  and  span.  I  fol¬ 
lowed  her  example. 

We  climbed  back  into  the  canoe  and  serenely  paddled  close  inshore  to 
San  Francisco  del  Mar,  where  a  crowd  of  natives  awaited  our  arrival  on 
the  beach.  The  crowd  began  to  murmur  as  we  came  ashore.  “Impossible,'' 
they  kept  repeating  in  Spanish,  as  they  stared  at  us,  wonder  and  a  sort  of 
awe  written  large  on  their  faces.  They  followed,  but  at  a  respectful  dis¬ 
tance,  as  we  made  our  way  to  Enrique’s  house.  “Now  what  do  you  sup¬ 
pose?”  asked  Ginger.  I  shook  my  head — there  was  no  accounting  for  the 
vagaries  of  these  people. 

Our  escort  hurled  comments  in  their  native  tongue  at  Enrique,  who 
came  out  of  the  store  to  greet  us.  He  looked  at  us  for  a  moment,  then 
laughed.  “You  have  some  explaining  to  do,”  he  said.  “These  people  want 
to  know  how  you  crossed  the  pampa  in  the  norte ,  without  being  affected 
by  the  wind  and  water.” 

I  looked  at  Ginger's  neatly  combed  hair  and  spotless  shore  dress  and 
grinned.  Evidently  our  dramatic  crossing  and  subsequent  rehabilitation  had 
not  been  observed  from  the  village.  As  I  started  to  explain,  a  native  pushed 
his  way  through  the  crowd  and  said  to  me,  “Senor,  the  Presidente  has  re¬ 
turned  and  wishes  to  see  you  at  once.” 

We  had  left  our  official  papers  at  Enrique's  house,  and  after  picking 
them  up,  we  followed  the  messenger  to  the  agenda ,  a  thatched  hut  with 
mud  walls,  where  El  Presidente ,  surrounded  by  his  secretary  and  a  group 
of  village  dignitaries,  awaited  us.  After  the  usual  greetings,  I  immediately 
presented  our  papers,  and  asked  the  Presidente  if  he  would  favour  us  by 
putting  his  signature  and  seal  upon  them.  We  had  learnt  through  experi¬ 
ence  that  it  was  always  wise  to  do  this  at  once,  as  though  it  were  a  matter 
of  routine  procedure  with  which  all  village  officials  were  familiar.  If  we 
asked  an  official's  permission  to  remain,  and  so  forth,  before  getting  our 
papers  signed,  it  gave  him  time  to  ponder  over  their  legality,  and  whether 
we  should  be  allowed  to  stay  at  all. 

The  Presidente  started  hunting  for  his  seal  before  he  even  looked  at  the 
papers.  After  a  good  deal  of  searching  about  his  dark  cubby-hole,  he  found 
it.  Then  he  spread  out  the  papers,  one  by  one,  on  the  side  of  the  broken 
dugout  that  served  him  for  a  desk.  He  drew  his  brows  together  over  the 
importance  of  what  he  was  about  to  do,  and  with  a  grand  flourish  stamped 
each  paper  with  his  seal,  scrawling  a  row  of  zigzag  lines  beneath  each 


278  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

stamp.  I  whispered  to  Enrique,  who  stood  beside  me,  "Doesn't  the  Presi¬ 
dents  read  papers  before  he  signs  them?" 

"He  can’t  read,"  he  whispered  back. 

We  were  going  to  need  El  Presidents' s  help  if  we  ever  expected  to  get 
to  Great  Pampa,  and  I  thought  a  recital  of  our  virtues  and  importance,  as 
described  by  the  Port  Captain  of  Salina  Cruz,  might  help.  So  I  fished  the 
letter  out,  and  asked  Enrique  to  read  it.  As  he  declaimed  its  grandiloquent 
phrases,  the  group  listened  intently,  and  when  he  had  finished,  they  broke 
into  the  clipped  staccato  of  their  native  tongue.  In  a  few  minutes  the  room 
became  quiet.  The  small,  dignified  Presidente  took  his  place  behind  the 
official  dugout  desk.  He  looked  very  solemn  as  he  donned  a  pair  of  old- 
fashioned  spectacles — the  Lord  only  knows  where  he  got  them — and  cleared 
his  throat  in  an  impressive  manner.  The  other  people  ranged  themselves 
round  the  walls.  The  place  took  on  the  air  of  a  court  room  and  I  knew  some¬ 
thing  was  about  to  happen.  I  looked  pleadingly  at  Enrique,  but  he  only 
shrugged.  After  all  he  was  not  a  native  of  the  village,  and  it  was  apparent 
that  he  knew  as  little  as  we  did.  We  might  have  broken  a  dozen  local 
tabus  without  his  knowing  it.  Then  my  name  was  called. 

I  felt  a  little  shaky  as  I  strode  up  in  front  of  the  Presidente  and  faced  him. 
He  looked  over  his  glasses,  as  he  asked  in  an  inquisitorial  tone,  "Are  you 
an  engineer?"  This  information  he  had  gained  from  the  letter  which  En¬ 
rique  had  read  to  him.  I  nodded,  yes,  I  was  an  engineer.  Then  he  sprang  a 
bombshell.  "Do  you  understand  making  maps?"  Shades  of  Magdalena  Bay! 
Were  we  going  to  be  held  in  this  God-forsaken  little  village  on  charges  of 
spying?  Before  I  could  answer,  another  question,  equally  disturbing,  was 
on  its  way.  "Do  you,"  asked  El  Presidente ,  "understand  photography?" 
My  face  got  red.  Now  I  knew  we  were  to  be  accused  of  spying.  I  glanced 
over  at  Ginger  to  see  how  she  was  taking  it.  She  looked  frightened,  too. 

"Just  what  would  you  like  to  know?"  I  stammered. 

But  we  were  not  to  be  put  out  of  our  misery  so  soon.  The  Presidente 
carefully  examined  his  hands.  The  room  held  its  breath — and  so  did  we! 
Then  he  said,  choosing  his  words,  "My  people  say  strange  things  of  you. 
You  crossed  the  pampa  against  the  norte  today,  which  no  man  can  face, 
yet  not  a  drop  of  water  touched  your  clothes,  nor  did  the  wind  displace  a 
hair  on  your  heads.  You  came  safely  through  the  Mareno  country.  It  is 
reported  that  you  have  sailed  your  boat  on  the  mar  viva "  (the  ocean).  His 
voice  rose  with  excitement — we  could  feel  the  hysteria  in  the  room — as  he 
finished.  "These  are  strange  things.  We  think  you  possess  strange  powers." 

To  be  accused  of  possessing  supernatural  powers  was  a  dangerous  busi¬ 
ness,  and  we  knew  it.  If  these  natives  believed  in  the  tradition,  imported 
by  the  Spanish,  of  Ojos  de  Diablo ,  we  were  in  for  a  lot  of  trouble.  Unpleasant 
things  happened  to  people  who  had  the  "evil  eye."  Something  must  be 
done  and  done  quickly.  I  began  to  talk  in  a  quiet,  reassuring  voice.  "Some 
men,"  I  said,  "have  the  ability  to  understand  things  which  are  a  mystery 


279 


The  Land  of  Primitive  Men 

to  others.  These  men  find  pleasure  in  doing  things  that  other  men  say 
cannot  be  done.  They  learn  to  do  these  things  by  study,  hard  work,  and 
the  attainment  of  knowledge.  Such  men  are  not  Ojos  de  Diablo ,  they  are 
Amigos  de  Dios  (the  friends  of  God).  They  are  your  best  friends,  if  you  are 
friends  to  them.  I  hope  that  we  may  be  your  friends/' 

This  speech  was  greeted  by  silence.  The  Presidente  stared  at  me  with  a 
bewildered  expression.  Apparently  he  had  something  else,  and  not  the 
“evil  eye”  in  mind.  After  a  long  pause  he  said,  “We  realize  that  you  are 
such  a  man,  and  we  have  called  this  meeting  to  ask  a  favour  of  you.  Can 
you  bring  back  to  life  that  which  is  dead?" 

Ginger  smiled  at  me  reassuringly,  as  I  pondered  the  proper  reply.  It 
seemed  best  to  invite  a  little  more  detail  before  I  confessed  to  such  power. 
“What  is  it  that  you  wish  me  to  do?"  I  asked. 

“I  will  show  you,"  answered  the  Presidente.  From  an  old  chest  in  one 
corner  of  the  hut,  he  fished  out  an  ancient  copper  tube,  green  with  verdigris. 
It  was  a  chart  tube,  and  might  have  seen  service  on  some  Spanish  galleon. 
He  removed  its  cap  with  difficulty,  and  pulled  out  a  parchment,  yellow  and 
brittle  with  age.  With  the  help  of  several  others  I  carefully  unrolled  it. 
A  masterpiece  of  fine  penmanship,  it  bore  the  insignia  of  the  eagle  and  the 
serpent  beautifully  drawn  with  pen  and  ink,  and  in  the  lower  right-hand 
corner,  the  bold  signature  “Cortez."*  It  was  the  original  charter  for  the 
Port  of  San  Francisco  del  Mar.  I  could  hardly  believe  my  eyes.  There  was 
a  certain  irony  in  the  fact  that  the  preservation  of  this  memento  of  vanished 
sovereignty  was  of  no  concern  to  any  one  who  might  have  had  a  sense  of 
identity,  through  race  or  inheritance,  with  what  it  had  once  signified.  It  is 
hard  to  say  precisely  what  it  meant  to  its  present  custodians,  who  watched 
my  face  with  grave  anxiety,  while  I  carefully  examined  it.  In  some  inde¬ 
finable  way,  it  represented  a  link  with  a  past  more  glamorous  than  the 
present;  and  its  preservation  to  these  descendants  of  those  whom  it  had 
despoiled  was  a  matter  of  gravest  import.  Though  it  was  dry  and  brittle, 
and  part  of  its  border  had  been  eaten  away  by  termites,  I  believed  that  it 
might  be  restored. 

The  Presidente  beamed  as  I  said,  “Yes,  I  can  bring  it  back  to  life,  and  I 
will  be  glad  to  do  so  if  you  will  help  me." 

Still  beaming,  he  addressed  the  others  in  their  native  tongue.  Then  he 
turned  to  me,  and  asked  in  Spanish,  “What  is  it  that  we  can  do  for  you?" 

“As  you  know,"  I  said,  “we  are  on  our  way  to  Champerico.  We  wish 
to  reach  the  next  water  south.  To  do  this  we  will  need  two  oxcarts  and 
two  men."  That  started  the  argument  of  how  far,  and  so  forth,  it  was  to 
the  next  lagoon.  Everyone  talked  at  once,  and  there  was  no  agreement. 

I  finally  interrupted  the  discussion.  “Today,"  I  said,  “we  climbed  to  the 
top  of  Cerro  Blanco,  and  saw  the  country  to  the  south.  We  have  made 

*  Probably  a  descendant  of  the  conqueror  of  Mexico,  who  had,  besides  his  legitimate  chil¬ 
dren,  several  natural  children  who  were  given  land  grants  in  this  country. 


280  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

portages  by  oxcart  before.  I  know  there  are  men  in  this  village  who  have 
been  to  the  next  lagoon.  Let  us  talk  to  those  men.  It  is  useless  to  listen  to 
those  who  do  not  know  the  country.  We  will  remain  here  tomorrow,  and 
I  will  work  upon  your  document.  For  the  work  I  will  need  a  large  piece  of 
cloth,  finely  woven;  a  large,  smooth  piece  of  wood,  bigger  than  the  paper, 
and  a  quantity  of  the  poison  that  you  use  to  kill  fish.  And/'  I  added  with  a 
smile,  "two  oxcarts  and  two  drivers." 

The  Presidents  s  face  was  a  study  in  perplexity.  He  wanted  his  charter 
"brought  back  to  life,"  but  it  was  obvious  that  he  knew  of  no  one  who 
would  take  us  to  the  lagoon.  That  was  his  problem,  though,  and  I  had  a 
feeling  he  would  make  an  effort  to  arrange  it  somehow. 

With  that,  we  carefully  put  the  charter  back  in  its  container,  and  fol¬ 
lowed  Enrique  to  his  house. 

The  next  morning  when  we  arrived  at  the  agenda ,  the  Presidente  was 
there  with  all  the  materials  I  had  asked  for.  Ginger  made  some  paste  out 
of  flour  we  had  brought  with  us  from  Salina  Cruz,  into  which  I  stirred  the 
poison,  mata  pescado.  The  cloth  I  stretched  over  the  slab  of  wood,  gave  it 
a  thorough  coating  of  paste,  and  placed  the  charter  upon  it.  When  the  old 
vellum  adhered  firmly  to  its  new  cloth  backing,  we  covered  it  with  a  sec¬ 
ond  piece  of  cloth,  and  weighted  it  down  with  bricks  salvaged  from  the 
ruined  church.  There  was  a  good  chance  that  the  liberal  dosage  of  poison 
in  the  paste  might  discourage  the  termites'  future  activities.  After  allowing 
sufficient  time  for  the  paste  to  dry  partially,  we  removed  the  bricks,  set 
the  board  in  the  sun,  and  took  several  photographs  of  the  relic.  We  prom¬ 
ised  the  Presidente  that  if  the  pictures  could  be  developed  in  Champerico, 
we  would  send  him  one — perhaps  a  large  one  if  it  could  be  arranged — so 
that  if  anything  happened  to  his  charter,  he  would  always  have  its  likeness. 
We  then  replaced  the  bricks  and  set  the  document  away  to  dry  thoroughly. 

Our  part  of  the  bargain  was  completed,  now  what  about  the  oxcarts?  We 
looked  at  El  Presidente  inquiringly.  He  smiled  and  motioned  into  the  room 
two  men  who  were  loafing  outside  the  entrance.  Their  names  were  Pedro 
and  Jose,  the  Presidente  said,  and  they  were  experienced  cartmen  thor¬ 
oughly  familiar  with  the  lagoon  country.  Both  of  them  looked  tough  enough 
to  cope  with  anything,  including  the  Marenos.  Neither  man,  however, 
seemed  anxious  to  make  the  trip,  and  each  began  the  usual  recital  of  rea¬ 
sons  why  he  could  not  go:  there  was  a  road,  but  it  led  only  a  short  distance; 
one  of  them  had  a  sick  wife;  there  was  the  danger  from  Marenos;  the  trip 
would  require  four  days.  And  finally,  they  had  turned  their  oxen  loose  and 
did  not  know  where  to  find  them! 

Then  I  had  an  idea.  I  said  to  Pedro,  the  elder  of  the  two,  a  tough-looking 
hombre  with  shifty  eyes  and  a  hard,  straight  mouth.  "If  I  can  make  your 
wife  well,  will  you  both  go  with  us?" 

He  brightened.  “Si,  Senor."  We  closed  the  deal  and  followed  Pedro  off 


281 


The  Land  of  Primitive  Men 

to  his  hut,  with  Jose,  the  smaller  and  less  aggressive  of  the  two,  trailing 
dispiritedly  in  our  wake. 

Pedro’s  hut  was  a  miserable  affair  on  the  outskirts  of  the  village.  His 
sick  wife  lay  in  a  dilapidated  hammock  under  a  sleazy  palm  roof.  She  com¬ 
plained  of  a  bad  headache  and  fever.  From  her  symptoms  it  was  easy  to 
diagnose  her  illness  as  a  light  malarial  attack.  I  went  to  the  canoe  to  get 
the  medicine  kit,  while  Ginger  prepared  some  atole  for  the  sick  woman.  I 
gave  her  a  stiff  shot  of  quinine,  followed  by  two  aspirins,  and  told  her  to 
drink  nothing  but  boiled  water,  and  eat  nothing  but  atole  for  the  next  week. 

While  we  were  doctoring  the  sick  woman  quite  a  crowd  collected  to 
watch  the  proceedings.  As  we  turned  to  leave,  one  of  the  natives  hobbled 
up  and  pointed  to  his  foot,  which  was  badly  infected.  “Can  you  make  this 
well,  too?”  he  asked. 

Then  I  realized  that  we  were  getting  into  deep  water.  In  our  anxiety  to 
persuade  the  cartmen  to  make  the  trip,  wre  had  overstepped  the  authority 
of  the  local  medicine  man  or  woman.  This  was  a  serious  breach  of  etiquette. 
Poor  as  their  local  resources  might  be,  it  was  all  the  natives  had  once  we 
were  gone  and  sometimes  their  medicine  men  had  considerable  skill.  I 
tried  to  look  very  grave.  “In  our  travels,”  I  said,  “we  have  learned  many 
things,  but  we  are  powerless  to  help  you  without  the  aid  of  your  own 
doctor.” 

The  crowd  talked  among  themselves  for  a  few  minutes.  Finally  an  old 
woman  hobbled  up  and  announced  that  she  was  the  local  midwife  and 
“ doctor  a .”  “Come,”  I  said  to  her,  “let  us  talk  to  the  Presidente. 

The  crowd  scattered  off  to  spread  the  news,  while  we  secured  the  Presi - 
dente  $  permission  to  teach  the  old  woman  some  of  the  things  we  knew 
about  medicine.  Then  we  went  with  her  to  her  hut,  a  short  distance  from 
Enrique’s  store.  On  the  w^ay  over  I  explained  to  her  the  necessity  for  clean¬ 
liness,  for  I  had  a  strong  hunch  wre  would  have  to  clean  up  her  hut  before 
we  could  administer  to  the  rapidly  growing  number  of  patients.  Her  hut 
wfas  cleaner  than  we  had  anticipated,  but  a  little  antiseptic  treatment 
wouldn’t  do  it  any  harm,  especially  since  the  old  woman  was  in  the  mood 
to  learn  what  she  could.  She  was  a  pleasant  and  an  intelligent  native  writh  a 
likable  personality.  Her  clothes  were  old  and  faded,  but  they  were  clean; 
and  her  sparse  grey  hair  was  neatly  tied  at  the  nape  of  her  neck. 

Ginger  organized  the  hospital  force  by  soliciting  the  additional  services 
of  Teresa  and  old  Carmen.  The  Presidente  came  along  in  the  role  of 
generalissimo.  We  barred  the  door  against  the  prying  eyes  of  the  crow’d 
and  went  to  work.  While  Ginger  superintended  the  work  of  making  the 
hut  sanitary  by  the  unlimited  use  of  boiling  water  and  much  scrubbing,  I 
showed  the  Presidente  and  the  old  midwdfe  how  to  sterilize  needles,  knife 
blades,  and  cloth.  Then  I  arranged  with  the  midwife  the  procedure  to  be 
followed  in  treating  the  patients.  I  would  do  the  wrork,  but  she  was  to 
stand  by  and  tell  me  how  to  do  it — after  first  observing  very  carefully  what 


282  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

it  was  that  I  meant  to  do.  If  she  did  not  understand,  I  would  ask  her  a  lead¬ 
ing  question,  to  which  she  was  always  to  reply  ‘"yes."  We  went  over  the 
business  until  I  was  sure  that  she  thoroughly  comprehended  the  arrange¬ 
ment.  The  doctora  was  no  fool,  and  she  knew  quite  well  that  this  teamwork 
would  increase  her  prestige  with  the  natives  for  miles  around. 

We  opened  the  door  and  admitted  our  first  patient,  the  man  with  the 
infected  foot.  Out  of  hearing  of  the  patient,  I  explained  to  the  doctora  what 
was  to  be  done.  First,  she  was  to  instruct  me  to  scrub  the  foot  thoroughly 
in  hot  water;  then  to  open  and  drain  the  wound  with  the  aid  of  sterilized 
needles  and  a  broken  piece  of  razor  blade,  which  I  had  furnished.  Next,  we 
were  to  remove  the  source  of  the  infection  ( in  this  case  a  thorn  which  had 
broken  off  in  his  foot),  and  finally  we  were  to  bandage  the  wound  with 
sterile  bandages.  The  needles  and  the  razor  blade  were  to  be  always  steri¬ 
lized  by  washing  them  in  permanganate  of  potash  before  we  used  them. 
She  nodded,  and  we  went  to  work  on  the  patient. 

We  got  along  famously  together,  treating  one  patient  after  another  for 
infections,  malaria,  dysentery,  bad  cuts,  and  nigua  bites.  She  had  a  nice 
sense  of  humour,  for  her  eyes  twinkled  as  we  went  into  a  professional  hud¬ 
dle  over  what  was  to  be  done  for  “Tomas'  sore  toe,"  and  for  the  “spirits" 
that  were  causing  Conchita’s  stomach  to  behave  in  a  most  peculiar  fashion. 
Our  clinic  was  a  curious  blending  of  traditional  lore  and  modern  medicine. 
Our  patients  had  not  been  spoiled  by  reading  accounts,  written  for  the  lay¬ 
man,  on  “how  to  diagnose  your  own  case,"  and  they  never  questioned  our 
treatment.  The  combination  of  tribal  authority  and  gringo  medication  was 
unbeatable. 

By  the  time  our  last  patient  had  gone,  the  old  doctora  was  famous.  Her 
fame  would  be  lasting,  for  we  had  used  neither  implements  nor  medicine 
which  she  could  not  procure  after  we  were  gone.  There  were  many  things 
in  our  medicine  kit  better  suited  to  the  purpose  than  the  things  we  used, 
but  to  have  introduced  them  to  this  isolated  village  would  have  been  more 
detrimental  than  helpful.  There  was  no  easily  available  source  from  which 
the  natives  could  secure  hospital  gauze  such  as  we  used  for  our  own  ban¬ 
dages.  Had  we  instructed  them  in  its  use,  instead  of  showing  them  how  to 
sterilize  their  own  handwoven  cloth,  they  might  have  traded  for  it,  for  a 
time,  in  Tonala  or  Juchitan,  but  most  likely  they  would  have  quickly  re¬ 
verted  to  the  use  of  a  dirty  rag. 

Two  weeks  of  intensive  effort  in  a  village,  working  through  the  right 
authorities,  and  using  a  terminology  comprehensible  to  the  native  mind, 
would  do  more  to  stamp  out  unsound  practices  than  a  number  of  trained 
doctors  turned  loose  in  the  same  village.  For  instance,  “bad"  spirits  like 
to  live  in  dirty  water,  unclean  bandages,  open  cesspools;  but  only  “good" 
spirits  inhabit  sterile  needles,  scalded  ollas,  and  so  forth.  It  is  surprising 
how  quickly  the  local  shamans  get  the  idea.  Their  fame  and  prestige  de- 


283 


The  hand  of  Primitive  Men 

pends  upon  curing  the  sick;  and  they  speedily  adopt  any  measures  to  that 
end,  once  they  are  pointed  out  to  them. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  of  that  day,  the  Presidente  came  to  see  us.  We 
knew  by  his  lugubrious  face  that  something  had  gone  amiss.  Yes,  he  said, 
something  was  very  wrong.  The  cartmen  had  just  paid  him  a  visit,  and 
flatly  announced  that  they  had  reconsidered,  and  would  not  make  the  trip. 
I  was  furious.  They  had  both  faithfully  promised  that  if  I  cured  Pedro’s 
wife  they  would  go.  We  made  tracks  for  Pedro's  hut.  The  quinine  and 
aspirin  had  done  their  work  fairly  well.  Mrs.  Pedro  was  busy  over  the 
metate  grinding  corn,  while  Pedro  lay  asleep  in  her  hammock.  I  awoke  him 
without  ceremony.  “What  do  you  mean  by  breaking  your  promise?"  I  de¬ 
manded. 

Pedro  lazily  opened  one  eye.  “Why  should  I  go?"  he  said.  “She  is  now 
able  to  cook."  I  delivered  a  scorching  denunciation  of  people  who  broke 
promises,  but  Pedro  simply  turned  over  and  ended  all  discussion  by  going 
back  to  sleep.  I  was  to  wish  later  that  I  had  twisted  the  hammock  round 
his  neck  then  and  there,  and  hung  him  from  his  own  roof  beam. 

With  Enrique  we  canvassed  the  entire  village  for  another  driver.  We 
were  warmly  greeted,  but  our  offer  coolly  declined.  There  were  no  other 
drivers — and  that  was  that! 

Enrique  was  sympathetic,  but  unfortunately  that  was  not  enough  to  pro¬ 
duce  a  cartman.  He  tried  to  console  us  with  a  recital  of  what  bad  characters 
Pedro  and  Jose  were.  They  were  not  natives  of  the  village,  but  lived  there 
because  they  were  the  only  people  able  to  drive  an  oxcart  through  Mareno 
territory  and  live  to  tell  the  story.  The  other  drivers  had  all  been  killed  off. 
They  made  a  good  living,  judged  by  village  standards,  since  they  had  no 
competitors.  Enrique  suspected  that  this  was  true  only  because  the  men 
were  Marenos  themselves,  who  had  adopted  village  life  and  married  village 
women.  In  any  event,  they  were  bad  actors  and  we  were  well  rid  of  them. 
This  was  interesting,  but  it  didn’t  help  the  situation.  Then  I  had  a  bright 
idea,  and  went  back  to  Pedro’s  hut. 

Pedro  was  still  in  the  hammock,  and  by  now  mightily  bored  by  my  in¬ 
sistence  that  a  promise  was  a  promise.  “Very  well,  Pedro,"  I  said,  “I 
promised  you  I’d  cure  your  wife,  and  kept  my  word.  But  now  that  you’ve 
broken  your  promise,  I  shall  break  mine.  Tomorrow  your  wife  will  be  sick 
again."  This  statement  was  based  on  the  chance  that  his  wife  had  recurrent 
malaria.  If  so,  she  would  have  another  attack  of  fever  in  the  morning. 
Pedro  leered  and  said  nothing  eloquently.  He  was  a  sceptic  of  the  first 
order.  Since  there  was  nothing  to  be  gained  by  further  argument,  I  left 
with  as  much  dignity  as  was  possible  under  the  circumstances,  returning  to 
Enrique’s  house. 

Here  a  collection  of  the  village  notables  were  assembled,  busily  planning 
for  a  big  fiesta  to  take  place  that  night.  My  late  assistant,  the  doctora ,  the 
Presidente ,  Teresa,  and  old  Carmen,  with  the  face  of  a  grinning  gargoyle, 


284  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

were  the  principal  masters  of  ceremony.  They  had  thoroughly  organized 
the  village:  every  woman  was  to  prepare  some  dish;  other  villagers  were 
to  dance,  or  sing,  or  play  guitars.  It  was  a  big  evening,  with  everyone 
present  except  Pedro,  Jose,  and  their  families. 

We  returned  to  the  canoe  about  midnight.  The  mud,  as  usual,  was  so 
churned  up  that  we  had  to  circle  round  it  until  we  had  located  the  anchor 
line  and  dragged  the  boat  to  a  new  anchorage  before  going  aboard.  We  lay 
in  the  sleeping  bag,  looking  at  the  stars,  and  listening  to  the  wind  over¬ 
head.  How  were  we  going  to  get  out  of  San  Francisco  del  Mar?  The  only 
solution  seemed  to  be  to  retrace  our  steps  to  Laguna  Inferior,  go  out  the 
sea  entrance  into  the  Gulf  of  Tehuantepec,  and  down  the  gulf  to  the  sea 
entrance  of  Great  Pampa.  Closer  acquaintance  with  the  norther  had  enor¬ 
mously  increased  our  respect  for  its  potency,  but  there  seemed  to  be  no 
other  way  for  us  to  reach  the  next  lagoon. 

The  following  morning  we  were  up  at  daylight.  After  dragging  the 
canoe  as  close  to  the  beach  as  we  could,  we  unloaded  the  equipment  and 
spread  it  out  to  dry.  To  neglect  this  chore  was  to  invite  disaster,  for  in 
the  humid  heat  everything  moulded  or  rusted  in  a  day.  Ginger  smiled  as  we 
went  about  our  tasks.  “Something  tells  me,”  she  said,  “that  today  tells  the 
story.  It's  the  thirteenth,  too.  Wonder  where  we’ll  be  by  Christmas?”  I 
unrolled  the  tent,  wondering  just  where  we  would  be  by  Christmas. 
Whether  somewhere  to  the  south  in  the  lagoon  country,  or  in  Davy  Jones’s 
locker  (via  the  Gulf  of  Tehuantepec)  depended  for  the  moment  on  who  had 
been  fooled — Pedro  or  myself. 

We  were  still  at  work  when  that  precious  pair,  Pedro  and  Jose,  came 
down  to  the  beach — full  of  questions  and  hostility.  Pedro  fired  the  opening 
gun.  “Are  you  well  armed?” 

“We  are  always  well  armed,”  I  answered  significantly. 

“How  much  are  your  possessions  worth?”  he  asked  in  the  tone  of  an 
assessor  putting  the  bee  on  a  reluctant  taxpayer. 

“Less  than  nothing  to  any  one  else,”  I  retorted.  “Each  piece  is  stamped 
with  a  magic  sign.”  I  pointed  to  the  monogram  stamped  or  painted  on 
each  piece  of  equipment.  “No  one  may  use  the  things  so  stamped  except 
ourselves,  without  incurring  the  wrath  of  the  spirits.” 

They  fidgeted,  fussed,  and  asked  impertinent  questions,  but  we  worked 
on  as  though  they  were  not  there.  Pedro  began  demanding  additional  guar¬ 
antees  of  payment  over  what  the  Presidente  had  already  promised.  Jos£ 
sidled  over  to  me  and  whispered  that  Pedro’s  wife  was  “very  sick.”  Pedro 
stood  on  one  foot  and  then  the  other.  Finally,  he  said,  “What  work  is  it 
that  you  are  doing  now?” 

“We  are  going  back  to  Laguna  Inferior,  and  sail  down  the  mar  viva  to 
the  entrance  of  Great  Pampa,”  I  replied.  At  this  evidence  that  we  were 
prepared  to  do  without  him,  his  face  darkened,  and  without  a  word  he 


285 


The  hand  of  Primitive  Men 

turned  and  walked  off  the  beach.  Jose  cast  a  greedy  look  at  the  equipment 
spread  on  the  sand  and  followed  him. 

“I  don’t  know,  Dan,  but  I  have  a  hunch,”  Ginger  remarked  thought¬ 
fully,  while  we  were  repacking  the  dry  equipment,  “that  it  would  be  just  as 
safe,  and  much  smarter,  to  tackle  the  gulf,  norther  or  no  norther,  than  to 
trust  ourselves  to  the  tender  mercies  of  that  couple.” 

“Oh,  well,”  I  said  reassuringly,  “they  can’t  do  much.  Men  without 
guns,  with  oxteams  on  their  hands,  won’t  be  much  of  a  menace.” 

While  we  were  eating  breakfast  at  Enrique’s,  the  old  doctora  appeared. 

I  told  her  about  Pedro's  and  Jose’s  little  visit.  She  gave  me  a  sly  wink. 
“I  will  be  back  soon,”  she  said,  and  trotted  off.  She  returned  shortly,  and 
smiled  as  she  said  through  her  toothless  gums,  “Pedro's  wife  is  very  sick; 
and  I  told  them  both  that  she  would  not  get  well  until  you  were  safely  de¬ 
livered  at  Aguas  Pocas.” 

Aguas  Pocas  (little  waters)  was  the  name  given  to  the  big  bay  at  the 
northern  end  of  Great  Pampa.  According  to  Pedro  it  was  a  distance  of 
twelve  leagues,  which  meant  absolutely  nothing,  since  a  league  in  this 
country  can  mean  from  two  to  five  miles.  On  the  map,  providing  it  was 
accurate,  Aguas  Pocas  looked  about  twenty  miles  away  from  San  Francisco 
del  Mar. 

Then  Pedro  arrived,  all  smiles.  “When  will  you  be  ready  to  start?”  he 
beamed. 

We  were  ready  whenever  he  was,  I  replied.  He  pointed  to  the  place 
where  the  sun  would  be  at  about  two  o’clock  that  afternoon,  and  said  that 
at  that  time  he  would  be  at  our  service.  We  agreed  to  meet  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  lagoon,  near  the  base  of  Cerro  Blanco,  since  it  was  impossible 
for  loaded  carts  to  cross  the  soft  mud.  He  also  promised  to  cut  a  sufficient 
number  of  palm  branches  to  provide  a  bed  for  the  canoe  to  ride  on.  Even 
though  we  knew  the  reason  for  his  going,  there  was  still  something  else 
behind  his  excessive  amiability.  A  reluctant  Pedro  would  have  reassured 
us,  but  a  Pedro  anxious  to  be  off  was  something  else  again. 

I  wrapped  up  half  our  supply  of  quinine  in  a  piece  of  paper,  and  handed 
it  to  the  medicine  woman.  “ Doctora ,  see  that  Pedro’s  wife  becomes  well 
as  soon  as  we  leave.”  She  flashed  again  that  toothless  grin,  more  eloquent 
than  words. 

By  one  o'clock  we  were  ready  for  the  trail.  We  had  donned  our  blue 
jeans  and  shirts.  Our  guns  were  well  oiled  and  loaded,  the  machete  razor- 
edged.  Teresa  and  the  other  women  had  prepared  a  lunch  for  us,  more  than 
sufficient  for  the  journey. 

After  the  usual  prolonged  good-byes,  we  started  off  in  the  canoe  with  a 
considerable  portion  of  the  villagers  wading  across  the  shallow  waters  of 
the  lagoon  as  an  escort.  Further  up  the  lagoon  the  oxcarts  were  crossing, 
with  the  balance  of  the  population  in  their  wake.  “They  wish  to  help  you 
load,”  I  was  informed.  I  groaned  inwardly.  What  a  mess  that  would  bel 


286 


Enchanted  Vagabonds 

The  oxcarts  came  into  the  water  to  meet  us,  and  the  oxen  promptly 
succumbed  to  the  jitters,  as  the  crowd  milled,  shouted,  and  splashed  round 
them.  Ginger  and  I  sat  tight  in  the  canoe  waiting  for  the  tumult  to  die 
down.  Then  all  the  village  children  clambered  aboard  the  canoe,  and  al¬ 
most  sank  it  before  we  could  make  them  understand  that  it  wouldn’t  hold 
an  army.  The  Presidente  finally  put  in  an  appearance,  and  we  pleaded  with 
him  to  quiet  the  crowd  and  tell  them  that  we  preferred  to  do  our  own  load¬ 
ing.  That  was  all  right  as  far  as  the  equipment  went.  There,  the  natives 
were  willing  to  concede  that  we  might  know  best.  But  the  problem  of  load¬ 
ing  the  canoe  was  another  matter.  Individually  and  collectively  they 
pressed  forward  with  advice  and  suggestions.  Stern  first  .  .  .  bow  first  .  .  . 
upside  down  .  .  .  forward  ...  on  end  ...  In  the  middle  of  the  discussion 
they  began  to  tear  the  cart  to  pieces — the  wheels  should  be  nearer  the 
front. 

In  desperation,  I  yelled  to  the  Presidente  please  to  stop  them — the  canon 
could  never  stand  the  strain  of  riding  as  they  wished  to  place  it.  That  gal¬ 
lant  soul  waded  into  the  mud,  churned  to  liquid  by  now,  and  waving  his 
arms,  announced  to  the  crowd,  that  he — and  nobody  else — from  now  on 
was  going  to  superintend  the  loading  of  the  canoe. 

We  replaced  the  wheels  on  the  cart  where  they  belonged.  Then  I  in¬ 
formed  the  two  dozen  men  waiting  to  lay  hands  on  the  Vagabunda ,  that 
only  myself  and  the  Presidente  were  going  to  lift  it  into  the  cart.  The  shock 
of  this  pronouncement  kept  them  silent  for  a  minute  or  two.  I  took  the  bow 
and  the  Presidente  the  stern,  and  together  we  began  to  lift.  A  buzz  went  up. 
“No  puederi'  (“They  can’t  do  it’’).  It  was  incomprehensible  to  the  crowd 
that  the  decked-over  canoe  should  weigh  less  than  a  dugout,  and  that  two 
men  could  lift  it,  since  it  took  eight  men  to  lift  a  dugout.  As  the  canoe  slid 
into  place,  the  crowd  began  to  cheer.  The  Presidente  stepped  back  and 
threw  out  his  chest.  The  oxen,  scared  to  death  by  the  noise,  plunged  off 
through  the  mud,  the  canoe  cart  headed  one  way,  the  equipment  cart  an¬ 
other.  The  crowd  stampeded;  some  of  them  tried  to  get  out  of  the  way  of 
the  oxen,  others  floundered  through  the  mud,  trying  to  stop  them. 

At  last  order  of  a  kind  was  restored.  Everybody,  including  ourselves, 
was  splattered  with  mud.  At  first  Ginger  and  I  congratulated  ourselves 
that  we  had  fared  better  than  the  others — but  not  for  long.  By  the  time  we 
had  received  the  “familiar  farewell’’  from  one  hundred  muddy  arms  en¬ 
circling  our  shoulders,  we  looked  as  though  we  had  been  dragged  the  length 
and  breadth  of  the  lagoon.  The  men  begged  us  to  stay.  The  women  cried. 
The  Presidente  made  a  speech.  And  we  were  off!  As  long  as  we  remained 
in  sight,  they  stood  in  the  mud,  waving,  and  calling  “Adios." 


Chapter  Twenty-two 


THE  SECOND  PORTAGE 


Trouble  with  Pedro  developed  at  the  outset  of  the  second  portage,  when 
I  insisted  that  he  climb  down  from  the  bow  of  the  canoe,  where  he  had 
perched  himself.  1  carefully  explained  why  he  could  not  ride  there;  that  the 
boat  was  too  frail  to  stand  his  weight — but  this,  of  course,  did  not  matter 
to  Pedro.  He  made  a  few  angry  and  caustic  remarks  about  gringos  who 
rode  on  equipment  carts,  while  better  men  walked.  “All  right,”  I  said, 
“we’ll  all  walk.’’  He  stamped  on  ahead  of  his  oxen,  and  we  fell  in  behind 
the  enveloping  cloud  of  dust,  listening  to  Jose’s  incessant  chatter.  He  soon 
began  to  talk  about  guns. 

“Rifles,’’  said  Jose,  “are  of  little  use  in  shooting  small  game,  but  a  shot¬ 
gun  with  many  bullets — that  is  a  gun  that  gives  a  man  a  chance. ’’ 

There  was  food  for  thought  in  this  chance  remark.  “And  a  pistol,  Jose?” 
I  queried. 

“Oh,  with  a  pistol  such  as  yours — but  they  are  worthless.  One  has  to 
be  very,  very  close  to  a  man  to  kill  him,  and  as  for  game,  that,  of  course,  is 
impossible.” 

“Oho,”  Ginger  said,  and  continued  in  English.  “Do  you  hear  it,  too? 
A  little  jubilant  it  seems  to  me,  to  be  setting  off' on  a  long  journey  through 
bad  country  with  only  a  couple  of  popguns  to  protect  them.  It  might  be  a 
good  idea  to  impress  those  fellows.” 

The  road  led  for  a  distance  along  the  lagoon,  and  as  we  came  out  on  the 
open  shore,  I  noticed  a  flock  of  water-birds  nearby.  “Jose,”  I  asked,  “could 
you  hit  one  of  those  birds  with  a  rifle?” 

He  smiled  pityingly  at  my  naivete.  “No,”  he  replied.  “Impossible.” 

It  was  an  easy  shot,  since  the  birds  were  all  bunched  together,  and  I 
dropped  two.  Then  a  large,  slow-flying  crane,  startled  by  the  firing,  sailed 
overhead.  I  took  careful  aim  at  its  neck,  made  a  direct  hit,  and  the  great 
bird  crashed  to  earth  a  short  distance  from  us. 

The  oxen  snorted  and  started  to  run.  When  he  had  them  under  control, 
Pedro  came  running  back  to  us.  The  men  exchanged  glances.  “She,  too,” 
blurted  Pedro,  pointing  to  Ginger.  She  was  a  much  better  shot,  I  assured 
him — her  feats  of  marksmanship  were  legendary.  Again  the  men  looked  at 
one  another.  “But,”  protested  Pedro,  “you  shot  twice  without  reloading.” 
Apparently  neither  man  had  ever  heard  of  an  automatic  pistol,  so  I  told 
them  that  both  our  guns  would  fire  as  many  shots  as  we  wished  them  to. 


288  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

Pedro  looked  at  me  through  narrowed  eyes,  turned  on  his  heel  and  stalked 
ahead  to  rejoin  his  oxen. 

Ginger  flashed  me  a  muddy  smile,  and  assured  me  that  our  exhibition 
had  probably  settled  any  future  doubts  about  guns.  I  wasn't  so  sure.  Pedro 
had  a  good  opinion  of  himself,  and  would  try  to  outsmart  us  yet — if  he  got 
the  chance.  I  urged  Ginger  to  keep  her  distance  from  their  machetes,  for  a 
native  can  wield  one  with  uncanny  speed  and  precision;  and  to  keep  her 
gun  swung  low  and  her  eyes  open.  As  we  walked  along  in  the  dust  behind 
the  carts  we  went  over  every  possible  trick  that  the  men  might  try,  working 
out  a  counter-offensive  to  each  situation,  until  we  had  covered  all  the  pos¬ 
sibilities  that  occurred  to  us. 

Throughout  the  long,  hot  afternoon  the  deeply  rutted  trail  meandered 
through  low  dense  scrub,  around  tangled  thorn  thickets,  and  across  flats  of 
thick,  razor-edged  buffalo  grass.  But  as  roads  go  in  this  country,  it  was 
fairly  good.  Towering  stands  of  flower-tipped  cacti  and  flowering  trees 
added  an  occasional  colour  note  to  the  otherwise  unattractive  landscape. 
But  nothing  else  broke  the  monotony  of  the  journey  as  we  plodded  on, 
hour  after  hour.  The  sun  grew  low  and  sank  below  the  horizon.  It  became 
more  difficult  to  avoid  the  thorns  and  spiked  vegetation,  for  the  moon 
would  not  rise  until  late.  Still  nothing  was  said  by  either  Pedro  or  Jos4 
about  finding  a  place  to  rest. 

About  eight  o'clock  Pedro  called  a  halt,  but  he  only  wanted  to  trade 
places  with  Jose.  Then,  instead  of  walking  at  the  head  of  his  team,  he 
dropped  behind  to  walk  with  us.  I  was  decidedly  suspicious  of  this  manoeu¬ 
vre,  for  it  was  too  dark  to  detect  and  nip  in  the  bud  any  sudden  move  he 
might  make.  Ginger  suggested  that  we  walk  ahead  of  the  carts  for  a  while. 
So  we  cut  round  them,  keeping  just  far  enough  in  advance  of  the  lead  cart 
to  keep  an  eye  on  Jose.  We  were  desperately  hungry  and  tired;  but  Pedro 
was  calling  the  turn,  and  we  could  continue  if  he  could. 

At  nine  o'clock  the  road  emerged  on  a  grass-covered  plain,  where  Jose 
called  to  us  to  stop — it  was  time  to  eat.  The  men  had  brought  little  food 
and  no  water.  Our  four  gallons,  all  that  our  canteens  would  hold,  had  to 
last  us  until  we  reached  the  lagoon,  and  perhaps  for  a  time  after  that.  The 
men  sat  down  and  munched  their  tortillas  and  fish  without  enthusiasm, 
eyeing  our  food  covetously,  although  we  were  eating  the  same  fare.  “Wa¬ 
ter!"  Pedro  demanded  peremptorily.  I  handed  him  one  of  our  canteens,  and 
he  drank  from  it  greedily.  Both  camps  ate  in  silence.  When  the  brief  meal 
was  finished,  the  march  was  resumed. 

Three  more  hours  we  stumbled  along  in  the  darkness,  until  Pedro  called 
another  halt  at  midnight.  This  time  we  were  to  rest,  while  the  tired  oxen 
were  turned  loose  to  graze.  The  moon  was  due  to  rise  shortly,  and  we 
would  continue  on  by  its  light.  The  men  spread  out  some  rags  and  lay 
down.  Pedro  insisted  that  we,  too,  sleep  for  a  while.  We  spread  out  our 
canvas  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  cart,  but  in  a  position  from  which  we 


289 


The  Second  Portage 

could  keep  a  watchful  eye  on  our  fellow  travellers.  Needless  to  say,  we  had 
no  intention  of  sleeping,  but  even  rest  was  impossible.  Our  clothes  felt  as 
if  they  were  full  of  hot  needles,  although  an  examination  of  our  arms  and 
shoulders  disclosed  nothing.  Later,  when  the  moon  rose  and  we  could  see 
by  its  light,  we  found  that  our  bodies  and  clothes  were  alive  with  pinolillos. 
While  the  cartmen  pretended  to  sleep,  we  spent  the  time  beating  our 
clothes  and  trying  to  pick  off  the  ticks.  It  was  soon  apparent  that  unless  we 
could  reach  water  and  scrub  them  off  before  they  had  a  chance  to  dig  in, 
we  would  be  covered  with  nasty  sores  that  would  take  a  month  or  more 
to  heal. 

I  routed  out  Pedro  and  Jose.  Pedro  was  surly  and  ill-tempered.  The  oxen 
were  nowhere  in  sight,  but  we  soon  found  their  tracks  going  back  down 
the  trail.  Pedro  suddenly  became  all  animation.  He  would  go  and  get  them, 
he  announced,  and  started  off  at  a  jog  trot.  I  said  to  Ginger  in  English, 
“There's  something  funny  here.  Pedro's  too  anxious  to  get  those  oxen, 
and  I'm  going  to  follow  him.  Stay  here  and  watch  Jose,  and  stay  within 
shooting  distance.  If  he  gets  funny,  make  him  say  ‘Uncle."' 

I  followed  Pedro,  making  no  noise  and  keeping  well  concealed.  A  half 
mile  down  the  trail,  I  caught  up  with  him.  The  oxen  were  just  ahead,  and 
as  he  came  up  to  them  he  threw  his  arms  in  the  air  and  gave  a  low  hiss, 
which  is  the  signal  for  oxen  to  “Gee  up!''  Since  the  beasts  were  being 
driven  homeward  they  responded  with  a  will.  Furious  at  this  evidence  of 
his  duplicity,  I  yelled,  “If  you  don't  catch  those  oxen,  I'll  blow  your  ears 
off."  He  started  ducking  for  the  brush,  but  I  cut  off  his  retreat.  He  wilted 
at  sight  of  the  gun,  and  started  off  to  circle  the  oxen  and  turn  them  back 
towards  the  carts — with  the  Luger  right  behind  him.  On  the  return  trip, 
Pedro  drove  the  oxen,  and  I  drove  Pedro. 

Once  more  we  walked  behind  the  carts,  our  clothing  chafing  the  pinolillos 
which  had  already  dug  into  our  skins  until  the  itching  almost  drove  us 
crazy.  But  there  was  nothing  we  could  do  about  it.  Pedro  stopped  the  oxen 
and  began  to  spank  his  clothes  with  a  small  switch.  Jose  also  attempted  to 
free  himself  from  the  ticks.  “From  here  on  there  are  many  pinolillos ,”  he 
said.  I  laughed.  The  threat  of  encountering  more  of  the  pests  didn’t  mean 
much,  since  we  were  already  completely  covered  with  them. 

At  3  a.m.  Pedro  called  another  halt.  He  quieted  the  oxen  and  came 
back  to  us.  “We  have  arrived,''  he  announced.  In  answer  to  my  query 
about  just  where  we  had  “arrived,’’  he  blandly  replied,  “At  our  destina¬ 
tion.” 

“Our  destination  is  Agua  Pocas,”  Ginger  interrupted. 

Something  had  been  planned  for  this  small  grassy  clearing  that  he  had 
chosen  for  his  “destination,”  and  we  knew  it.  His  own  explanation  that 
from  here  on  he  did  not  know  the  way,  was,  of  course,  nonsense.  “I  think 
we'd  better  keep  on  travelling,  Pedro,”  I  said  slowly  and  with  emphasis. 


290  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  began  talking  with  Jos4  in  their 
native  tongue.  His  tone  was  nasty,  and  I  watched  him  carefully. 

Pedro’s  machete  arm  was  hanging  close  by  his  side.  The  moonlight 
gleamed  on  the  sharp  blade.  Without  a  second’s  warning,  the  blade  flashed 
up  and  out,  directly  at  my  head.  I  ducked  and  lashed  out  with  my  gun.  The 
Luger  jumped  and  spat  flame  as  it  thudded  against  Pedro’s  head.  I  was  as 
much  surprised  at  its  accidental  discharge  as  he  was.  He  dropped  to  the 
ground  moaning,  thoroughly  convinced  that  he  had  been  shot  through  the 
head.  The  leading  oxen  started  off  on  a  wild  stampede  through  the  clearing 
into  the  jungle. 

Ginger  had  stepped  back  and  was  covering  Jose.  “Is  Pedro  dead?’’  she 
asked  in  a  shaky  voice. 

“No  such  luck;  just  scared,’’  I  answered.  “When  I  slapped  him  with  the 
gun,  the  pressure  of  my  hand  and  the  jar  pulled  the  trigger.  He  thinks 
he’s  dead,  though. " 

“Come  on,  there,”  I  said  to  Pedro,  “get  up.”  I  slapped  him  on  the  rear 
with  his  machete,  and  walked  back  to  where  I  could  cover  both  men.  “I’ll 
have  your  machete,  too,  Jose.” 

Pedro  slowly  got  to  his  feet,  feeling  his  head  to  see  if  it  were  still  there. 
It  was — not  even  the  skin  had  been  broken.  With  both  men  wralking  ahead 
of  us,  we  ran  down  the  oxen,  disentangling  them  from  the  growth  where 
they  had  sought  refuge.  Jose  was  tractable  and  agreed  to  drive  his  team 
without  further  difficulty;  but  Pedro  flatly  refused.  “You  do  not  under¬ 
stand  them — and  I  will  not  drive,”  he  said  sullenly. 

“All  right,  my  friend,  you  walk  ten  feet  ahead  of  me.  If  you  walk  faster 
than  that,  I’ll  shoot.”  After  tossing  his  machete  into  the  cockpit  of  the 
canoe,  and  relieving  him  of  his  picadura  ( a  stick  with  a  pointed  bit  of  metal 
on  the  end  shaped  like  an  arrowhead,  used  for  guiding  and  prodding  the 
oxen),  I  gave  the  team  the  signal  to  move  on. 

The  technique  of  driving  an  oxteam  lies  in  the  driver’s  knowledge  of 
what  to  do  with  the  picadura.  This  was  what  Pedro  hoped  we  did  not 
understand.  The  method  of  driving  them  differs  slightly  throughout  the 
country,  but  it  essentially  concerns  the  use  of  the  goad.  To  start  the  team, 
the  stick  is  raised  over  their  heads,  with  the  barb  pointing  towards  the 
rear.  Experience  has  taught  them  that  if  they  do  not  start  moving  immedi¬ 
ately,  their  hindquarters  will  feel  the  barb.  To  stop  them,  the  stick  is 
rapped  against  the  yoke — the  implication  being  that  the  rapping  will  be 
transferred  almost  instantly  to  their  heads.  To  make  a  sharp  turn,  the  stick 
is  held  above  the  head  of  the  off  ox.  This  encourages  him  to  hurry  up  and 
walk  round  his  partner.  At  night,  when  it  is  too  dark  for  the  off  ox  to  see, 
the  prod  is  placed  on  his  horns — its  point  menacing  his  rear — and  he  hur¬ 
ries  ahead  and  makes  the  turn.  The  only  oral  sound  used  is  a  long-drawn- 
out  hiss,  which  generally  has  to  be  accompanied  by  a  sharp  jab  from  the 
goad  before  it  is  taken  seriously.  Comprehension  of  these  few  simple  direc- 


291 


The  Second  Portage 

tions,  plus  the  fact  that  from  calfhood  the  ox  is  accustomed  to  having  his 
horns  tied  to  those  of  his  partner,  constitutes  his  entire  fund  of  knowledge. 
The  old  adage,  "As  dumb  as  an  ox,”  is  quite  true. 

Pedro  stamped  on  ahead,  time  after  time  trying  to  lead  us  astray  through 
the  heavy  brush.  Only  a  certain  kind  of  patience  that  one  learns  to  use  in 
dealing  with  childish  people  saved  him  from  the  beating  that  he  richly  de¬ 
served.  This,  and  perhaps  a  sort  of  macabre  humour  about  the  situation  that 
persisted  in  spite  of  the  pinolillos,  the  weariness,  and  the  danger:  the  angry 
Indio ,  balked  in  his  designs  against  our  goods  and  persons,  stalking  ahead 
in  the  throes  of  a  tantrum  that  a  spoiled  child  might  envy;  the  wheedling 
voice  of  Jos4,  now  all  sweetness  and  amiability,  warning  Ginger  of  every 
little  obstacle  on  the  trail — as  he  preceded  ten  paces  in  advance  of  her  gun 
trained  on  his  spine.  I  could  hear  him  with  the  gallantry  of  a  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh,  " Cuidado ,  Senora,  here  is  a  thorn  bush.”  Then  again,  "Be  careful, 
Senora,  to  miss  this  stone — just  a  little  to  the  right.”  It  was  hard  to  de¬ 
termine  whether  his  concern  was  for  her  or  for  himself — in  case  she  should 
stumble  and  shoot  him  inadvertently. 

Overhead  a  pale  moon  threw  weird  shadows  across  the  path  and  dappled 
the  backs  of  the  tired,  straining  oxen.  Our  legs  and  arms  had  long  since 
become  automatons  that  moved  without  any  effort  of  will.  The  excitement 
of  dealing  with  these  graceless  scoundrels  intent  on  murder,  theft,  or  worse, 
had  carried  us,  for  the  moment,  beyond  the  state  where  fatigue  imposes 
limitations. 

This  was  a  situation  that  would  have  intrigued  writers  of  the  old- 
fashioned  school  of  melodrama,  I  thought  as  we  went  along.  The  setting 
was  perfect,  and  it  had  everything,  including  the  lady  and  the  double-dyed 
villain.  Its  principal  victims  to  date,  however,  were  the  poor  oxen.  It  was 
a  shame  that  they  had  to  be  deprived  of  their  proper  rest,  food,  and  water 
to  make  a  Roman  holiday  for  Pedro.  However,  it  was  unwise  to  stop  even 
long  enough  to  let  them  graze  on  the  dew-soaked  grass,  which  would  have 
helped  their  parched  throats;  and  there  was  no  time  to  look  for  water  holes. 
They  were  so  tired  that  only  continual  prodding  kept  them  moving  at  all, 
for  they  had  been  on  the  march  fourteen  hours. 

Then  I  heard  Ginger  speaking  sharply  to  Jose.  "I'm  sorry,  but  you're 
not  going  to  leave  the  trail — for  anything!” 

"But,  Senora,  I  tell  you  I  must — I  mustV’  came  Jose's  answer  in  a  rising 
wail.  Further  pleas  and  promises  of  good  behaviour  brought  a  reiterated 
refusal. 

"What's  going  on  back  there?”  I  called  back,  and  stopped  the  team. 
Pedro,  ahead,  seized  the  interruption  to  fall  on  his  knees  and  groan. 

"Jose  wants  to  make  a  little  detour,”  Ginger  called  back  in  a  voice 
muffled  with  laughter. 

I  called  to  Jose,  "Come  on  up  here.  I  thought  you  were  too  damned 


292  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

mean  to  be  modest/’  Pedro  was  hauled  out  of  the  grass,  protesting,  and 
the  pair  of  them  marched  to  one  side  of  the  trail. 

When  we  returned,  Ginger  said  to  Pedro,  who  had  sworn  that  he  would 
rather  die  than  walk  further,  “Are  you  the  man  who  can  make  the  five-day 
cart  trip  to  Juchitan?  I  don’t  believe  it,  for  that  man  would  be  ashamed  to 
let  a  woman  out-travel  him  after  only  fourteen  hours  of  walking.” 

Without  a  word  Pedro  found  his  legs  and  started  ahead.  I  called  him 
back,  and  lined  up  the  pair  of  them.  “Listen  carefully,  my  friends,  for  I 
have  something  to  tell  you.  You  have  suddenly  become  a  great  nuisance 
to  us,  and  for  the  cost  of  only  two  bullets,  we  can  relieve  ourselves  of  the 
difficulty — and  save  for  ourselves  the  water  you  are  drinking.  We  are 
familiar  with  the  handling  of  oxen  in  this  country.  Would  it  not  be  easier 
for  us  to  put  you  out  of  the  way  and  continue  on  alone?  We  have  every 
reason  to  do  this,  for  you  have  tried  to  kill  me  and  take  the  canoe  and  our 
things  tor  yourselves.  Surely  no  one  would  blame  us.  Are  we  not  doing 
you  a  favour  in  taking  you  with  us?  Now  listen,  this  is  your  last  chance. 
We  are  going  to  Aguas  Pocas  whether  you  aid  us  or  not.  If  you  help  us, 
we  will  reward  you.  And  heaven  help  you  if  you  don’t!” 

Pedro  then  protested  that  he  did  not  know  the  way.  Jose  thought  it  was 
more  to  the  east.  “No  matter,”  I  said.  “We  shall  follow  the  open  country 
until  daylight.” 

On  and  on  we  followed  the  exhausted  oxen,  winding  in  and  out  among 
the  heavy  growth  in  an  effort  to  keep  in  the  clearings.  It  seemed  that  day¬ 
light  would  never  come.  Finally  we  could  go  no  further,  for  we  were 
completely  hemmed  in  by  the  jungle.  I  called  a  halt  and  unhitched  the  tired 
beasts.  Pedro  was  prevented  just  in  time  from  turning  them  loose.  “Tie 
them  to  the  cart,”  I  ordered.  Grumbling,  he  obeyed. 

The  oxen  apparently  safely  tied,  and  Pedro  and  Jose  stretched  out 
within  range  of  our  eyes,  we  lay  down  for  a  brief  respite.  Within  a  few 
minutes  Ginger  nudged  me.  Pedro  was  wriggling  towards  the  oxen.  He 
had  tied  them  so  loosely  that  it  was  only  the  work  of  a  second  before  the 
freed  animals  started  off,  making  tracks  for  home  and  water.  My  patience 
exhausted,  I  raised  the  Luger,  with  every  intention  of  killing  him.  Ginger 
grabbed  my  arm,  and  Jose  ran  up  and  pleaded,  “Please,  Senor,  I  will  bring 
back  the  oxen.”  In  spite  of  Ginger’s  doubts,  I  let  him  go  alone.  For  a 
wonder  he  was  to  be  trusted,  and  returned  shortly  with  the  beasts.  This 
time  they  were  securely  tied  under  my  supervision. 

The  two  men  returned  to  their  ragged  blankets;  and  we  climbed  on  the 
equipment  cart  to  escape  the  pinolillos.  The  ticks  were  digging  in  and  the 
itching  was  almost  unbearable.  Every  time  I  looked  at  the  Indian,  eyeing 
me  from  his  dirty  blanket,  I  had  to  stifle  the  almost  irresistible  impulse  to 
kill  him,  for  he  was  as  venomous  as  any  reptile.  Our  arms  ached  from  the 
constant  strain  of  holding  the  guns  trained  on  the  men.  I  wondered  dully 
why  we  didn’t  use  them  once  and  for  all,  and  then  put  them  away  in  our 


293 


The  Second  Portage 

holsters,  and  give  our  arms  a  rest.  Ginger  and  I  went  over  our  plans  once 
again  for  dealing  with  the  situation,  while  the  east  paled  and  the  sun  came 
over  the  mountains.  After  sunrise,  we  could  see  a  dense  haze  to  the  east — 
and  that  meant  water! 

Since  there  was  little  use  in  further  waiting,  Ginger  got  out  some  food, 
and  I  took  part  of  it,  together  with  the  canteen  the  men  had  used  to  drink 
from,  and  went  down  and  wakened  them.  After  the  meal,  Jose  and  I  hitched 
up  the  oxen,  and  skirted  the  growth  until  we  found  an  opening  in  the  iron 
wall  through  which  the  carts  could  pass.  Pedro  was  put  to  breaking  trail  in 
front.  I  was  not  at  all  sure  that  he  had  learnt  anything  by  the  events  of  the 
last  eighteen  hours,  but  Jose  was  thoroughly  cowed.  He  had  been  under 
the  strain  of  marching  all  night  in  front  of  a  woman  with  a  gun. 

The  heat  was  terrific.  Not  a  breath  of  wind  stirred.  Our  bodies  glistened 
with  sweat.  The  pinolillos  dug  in  with  increased  energy,  until  it  seemed 
as  though  we  were  bathed  in  fire.  On  and  on  we  went,  the  sun  pounding 
our  heads  with  a  molten  club.  From  time  to  time  Pedro  complained  that 
we  were  killing  his  oxen  by  travelling  through  the  heat  of  the  day.  Then 
Ginger  would  call  to  him  and  ask  sweetly  if  he  was  worrying  about  “poor 
Pedro,  or  the  Presidente’s  oxen?"  This  always  shut  him  up  for  a  few 
minutes — seldom  longer. 

It  was  hard  on  the  poor  beasts  and  we  hated  to  do  it;  but  the  idea  of 
spending  another  night  in  the  jungle  with  Pedro  was  nothing  to  look  for¬ 
ward  to.  Besides,  we  had  to  have  water  and  lots  of  it.  In  addition  to  the 
pinolillos — as  if  they  were  not  enough — we  were  covered  with  an  inch- 
thick  deposit  of  sweat  and  dust.  To  lie  and  float  in  cool  water,  with  the 
Vagabunda  riding  nearby — that  would  be  heaven.  So  we  kept  on,  always 
in  the  direction  of  the  beckoning  haze. 

One  thing  that  Jose  and  I  discovered  while  cutting  a  path  through  the 
brush  was  that  the  ticks  were  only  to  be  found  in  the  shade.  To  avoid 
them,  we  made  many  detours  in  the  sun. 

Jose  was  overjoyed  to  be  trusted  to  the  extent  of  having  his  machete 
returned  to  him,  and  he  cut  the  brush  when  necessary  with  a  good  will. 
A  native  deprived  of  his  machete  is  a  man  without  honour;  he  feels  as 
naked  without  it  as  a  white  man  might  feel  stripped  of  his  clothes  and 
turned  loose  on  some  busy  metropolitan  street.  Ginger  always  kept  Pedro 
well  covered  while  we  were  away;  and  never  failed  to  praise  Jose's  mag¬ 
nificent  courage  and  stamina  when  we  returned  to  the  carts. 

Towards  sundown  the  oxen  pricked  up  their  ears  and  took  a  new  lease 
on  life.  A  light  breeze  brought  us  the  smell  of  water.  To  the  left  the  growth 
became  thicker  and  greener.  Even  Pedro  ceased  complaining,  and  for  the 
first  time  since  he  had  been  put  to  breaking  trail  picked  out  the  best  route. 
He  announced,  as  though  it  were  due  to  his  efforts,  and  as  if  he  had  com¬ 
pleted  a  hard  task  uncomplainingly  and  was  now  about  to  receive  a  just 
reward,  “Senor,  we  have  arrived.  This  is  Aguas  Pocas.  May  I  go  ahead 


294  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

and  see  if  I  can  find  a  trail  to  the  water?”  I  nodded.  "But,  of  course,  I  shall 
need  my  machete,”  he  added. 

"Aw,  Pedro,”  I  said,  "we’re  too  tired  for  any  monkey  business.  If  the 
growth  is  so  thick  that  you  need  a  machete,  how  are  we  going  to  get  the 
carts  through?  Didn’t  you  say  you  were  going  to  look  for  a  trail?  Run 
along,  and  remember  we're  not  in  the  mood  for  one  of  your  little  surprises.” 
Pedro  started  off,  showing  his  second  burst  of  speed  on  the  trip. 

As  we  trudged  wearily  along,  Ginger  called  to  me,  "Aren't  you  taking 
a  long  chance,  Dan?  He  may  have  something  up  his  sleeve.” 

"I  don’t  think  so,”  I  replied.  "Maybe  he’s  been  converted.  Outside  of 
going  after  the  oxen,  this  is  the  first  initiative  he's  shown  on  the  trip; 
perhaps  he  sees  the  error  of  his  ways — it’s  about  time  to  dish  out  a  few 
fishhooks.  How  are  you  coming  along  back  there?” 

"Pretty  good,”  she  replied,  "except  that  my  arm  aches  from  holding 
the  gun  on  Jose.  And  don’t  forget  the  other  time  that  Pedro  got  ambitious.” 

I  marvelled  at  her  endurance.  My  own  arms  ached  from  the  weight  of 
the  heavy  Luger,  and  the  continual  use  of  the  goad.  My  legs  ached  from 
the  weight  of  the  heavy  gun  belt,  and  from  the  ceaseless  tramp,  tramp — 
one  foot  after  the  other — through  grass  and  brush,  over  sticks  and  logs, 
hour  after  hour.  Vines  and  creepers  held  our  feet  in  a  viselike  grip,  while 
thorny  branches  scratched  every  exposed  inch  of  our  bodies.  And  in  addi¬ 
tion  to  the  heat,  lack  of  sleep,  pinolillos,  and  scanty  rations  of  food  and 
water,  there  was  the  nervous  strain  of  watching  and  waiting.  Yet  Ginger 
had  managed,  somehow,  in  spite  of  her  slight  physique,  to  withstand  these 
things  for  thirty  hours. 

We  went  on  for  another  mile  or  two  without  a  sign  of  Pedro.  I  kept  a 
sharp  lookout,  and  was  careful  not  to  get  too  close  to  any  dense  growth. 
Since  he  was  unarmed,  there  was  little  he  could  do;  but  thirty  hours  of 
Pedro  had  convinced  us  that  there  was  little  he  wouldn’t  try.  He  had  a 
genius  for  mischief,  and  a  profound  belief  in  his  own  capacity  that  no 
amount  of  failure  could  diminish.  Then  we  heard  a  shout,  and  he  came 
running  back,  all  smiles,  to  inform  us  that  he  had  found  an  easy  trail  down 
to  the  water.  Said  Pedro,  with  his  most  ingratiating  voice,  "Senor,  your 
long  journey  is  over.” 

But  something  in  the  quality  of  his  tone  made  us  feel  that  Pedro  had  a 
longer  journey  in  mind  than  Aguas  Pocas.  He  insisted  politely  that  Ginger 
and  I  should  precede  the  carts,  and  that  he  and  Jose  should  follow.  "Per¬ 
haps  you're  right — this  time,  Pedro.  Perhaps  the  Senora  and  I  will  take 
your  advice  and  go  on  ahead.  Possibly,  who  knows,”  I  suggested,  "we 
may  find  something  to  shoot  at?” 

We  knew  that  once  away  from  the  noise  of  the  carts  our  hearing  would 
be  keener.  So  we  started  off,  keeping  carefully  to  the  trail  Pedro  had  found. 
Ginger  examined  the  growth  to  the  left,  and  I  to  the  right.  We  were  fol¬ 
lowing  an  old  cart  road.  A  half  mile  ahead  of  the  carts,  a  slight  movement 


295 


The  Second  Por'tage 

in  the  brush  sent  the  Luger  jumping  in  my  hand.  Ginger  fired  at  a  similar 
disturbance  on  her  side  of  the  trail.  As  the  sound  of  the  guns  died  away, 
a  frantic  crashing  through  the  brush  indicated  that  something,  or  some  one, 
was  leaving  in  a  hurry. 

\v  i thin  a  few  minutes  we  came  out  upon  a  small  sand  beach  where  the 
miirorlike  expanse  of  Aguas  Pocas  spread  out  before  us.  We  arrived  in 
time  to  see  a  dugout  manned  by  Indians  disappear  round  a  bend  in  the 
shoreline.  I  sent  up  a  geyser  of  water  close  beside  them. 

Don  t  you  think  we  d  better  go  back  and  assure  Pedro  that  the  way 
is  clear — sort  of  put  his  mind  at  ease?”  asked  Ginger. 

Just  then  we  heard  the  voices  of  the  men  urging  the  spent  oxen  forward. 
W  e  stepped  back  and  waited  until  Pedro  came  into  view.  His  face  wore 
the  look  of  a  man  who,  through  sheer  perseverance,  has  at  last  triumphed 
over  seemingly  insurmountable  circumstances — a  gay,  relaxed,  at  peace 
with  the  world  expression.  We  almost  hated  to  disturb  his  colossal  satis¬ 
faction.  When  he  was  almost  abreast  of  us,  I  hailed  him.  “Come  on,  Pedro, 
everything’s  fine.  Come  right  down  to  the  water,”  I  commanded. 

The  oxen  needed  no  inducements,  but  plunged  into  the  brackish  water 
and  began  to  drink.  Pedro  and  Jose  stared.  But  we  had  no  further  time  to 
waste  on  Pedro;  and  while  he  was  still  in  his  trance,  we  hurriedly  slid  the 
canoe  into  the  water,  and  loaded  the  equipment  into  it.  Then  I  called  to 
Jose,  who  waded  out  to  the  canoe,  closely  followed  by  Pedro,  to  come  and 
get  the  six  fishhooks  which  I  held  out  to  him.  Jose  beamed  his  thanks,  but 
Pedro  had  the  audacity  to  whine  over  his  failure  to  receive  a  parting  gift. 

No  fishhooks,”  he  moaned,  “and  we  are  hungry,  and  we  want  hot  coffee 
and  some  food.  We  need  water  and  provisions  for  the  long  trip  home.” 

“That’s  just  too  bad,”  I  returned.  “You  drank  up  all  of  one  canteen  on 
the  way  down.  We  had  only  one  gallon  left  for  ourselves,  but  I  wouldn’t 
deny  even  a  rattlesnake  a  drink  of  water.  Here.”  I  handed  him  the  canteen, 
and  together  they  finished  the  last  of  our  fresh  water.  Then  Ginger  decided 
that  we  might  as  well  do  a  good  job  of  it,  so  she  gave  them  the  balance  of 
the  food  that  Teresa  had  prepared. 

We  were  still  too  near  shore  for  the  canoe  to  float  with  our  weight  in  it; 
and  we  pushed  off  further  before  I  stuck  Pedro's  machete  in  the  mud,  and 
called  good-bye  to  Jose.  We  suspected  he  was  rather  the  victim  of  the 
stronger  and  more  aggressive  Pedro’s  machinations,  than  of  his  own  evil 
impulses. 


Chapter  Twenty-three 


SWAMP  GRASS,  QUICKSAND,  AND  A  FEW  MARENOS 


For  days  the  problem  of  reaching  Aguas  Pocas  had  been  our  chief  pre¬ 
occupation.  The  great  lagoon,  in  theory  at  least,  had  promised  easy 
transport  down  the  coast.  Its  many  islands,  which  spanned  its  length  like 
links  in  a  chain,  offered  additional  protection  against  the  norther.  We 
could  sail  snugly  between  them  and  the  land  to  seaward.  Rivers  emptied 
into  these  tidal  lagoons,  and  though  the  water  was  brackish,  animals  could 
drink  it.  There  would  be  game  to  supplement  our  food  supply.  But  as  we 
now  gazed  upon  its  broad  expanse,  it  seemed  that  the  effort  expended  in 
getting  here  had  won  for  us  only  a  Pyrrhic  victory. 

We  spent  the  first  few  minutes  after  our  arrival  in  giving  our  pinolillo- 
blackened  bodies  a  vigorous  scrubdown  with  sand.  We  rolled  over  and  over 
in  the  shallow  water  in  an  effort  to  dislodge  them.  This  gave  only  tem¬ 
porary  respite,  since  hundreds  of  them  had  burrowed  under  the  skin,  and 
would  have  to  be  dug  out.  Then,  refreshed  by  the  brief  bath  and  clean 
clothes,  we  searched  for  a  place  to  set  up  camp. 

As  far  as  the  eye  could  see  in  all  directions  there  were  birds:  herons, 
cranes,  flamingos,  ducks,  and  multitudes  of  tiny  sandpipers  wading  ankle- 
deep  in  the  shallow  lagoon.  Great  piled-up  clouds,  stained  with  the  flame 
of  the  setting  sun,  cast  a  rosy  glow  over  the  tranquil  water.  A  hundred 
square  miles  of  it,  lovely  to  look  at — and  only  six  inches  deep.  To  the  west, 
and  out  towards  the  centre  of  the  lagoon,  there  appeared  to  be  an  island, 
perhaps  three  miles  away.  This,  with  the  exception  of  the  mainland  we  had 
left,  was  the  nearest  land  in  sight. 

Since  the  lagoon  was  too  shallow  to  float  the  canoe  with  our  weight  in  it, 
we  had  to  drag  it.  Only  the  thought  of  a  hot  meal,  and  a  long,  uninter¬ 
rupted  sleep  in  the  tent  gave  us  the  strength  to  do  this.  To  force  ourselves 
over  those  three  long  miles  to  the  island  was  slow  torture.  Also  there  were 
many  places  where  the  water  was  too  shallow  to  float  even  the  empty  boat. 
Then  we  had  to  stop  and  hunt  until  we  found  a  deeper  channel. 

At  nine  o'clock  when  we  finally  reached  the  shore  of  the  island  our 
bubble  burst.  Gone  were  our  hopes  of  a  dry  camp,  a  hot  meal;  and  the 
longed-for  opportunity  to  rid  ourselves  of  the  pinolillos.  For  the  island  was 
only  a  ring  of  mangrove  roots  surrounding  a  boggy  swamp.  There  was  no 
alternative  but  to  look  further  on.  We  continued  to  drag  the  canoe  along 
the  shore  of  the  swamp,  always  hoping  to  find  a  bit  of  dry  land.  And  the 


297 


Swamp  Grass ,  Quicksand ,  and  a  Few  Marenos 

ticks  continued  to  raise  merry  hell.  When  we  could  find  a  spot  of  water 
two  feet  deep,  we  lay  down  in  it.  But  even  this  momentary  relief  was  denied 
to  us — swarms  of  malarial  mosquitoes  stung  our  unprotected  faces. 

The  lagoon  was  now  deep  enough  to  float  the  canoe.  I  urged  Ginger  to 
lie  down  in  the  cockpit  and  cover  herself  with  canvas  for  protection  against 
the  mosquitoes,  while  I  paddled  on  to  another  island  that  loomed  ahead. 
The  point  of  land  as  I  paddled  towards  it  took  on  the  quality  of  a  mirage, 
now  retreating,  now  advancing.  I  wondered  vaguely  if  we  should  ever 
reach  it.  We  were  lost  in  an  aqueous  world  of  swamps,  mangroves,  pino- 
lillos ,  and  mosquitoes.  I  repeated  the  words  soundlessly,  for  there  was 
nothing  else  left  in  all  creation.  All  the  other  tangible,  concrete  things  had 
disappeared — had  been  dissolved,  transmuted,  changed  into  brackish  water 
and  mud  .  .  .  swamps  .  .  .  mosquitoes  .  .  .  mangroves  .  .  .  mosquitoes. 

I  dimly  realized  that  I  was  becoming  light-headed.  Things  began  to 
march  in  columns  of  fours.  Then  ahead  I  saw  a  moving  spot  of  white  at 
the  base  of  the  point.  What  was  it?  I  strained  my  eyes  towards  the  island. 
Yes,  now  I  knew — it  was  a  canoe.  I  strapped  on  the  Luger.  No,  it  wasn’t 
a  canoe.  A  sand  beach?  But  there  weren’t  any  sand  beaches.  There  was 
nothing  left  in  the  world  but  swamps.  I  had  it!  We  were  coming  into  port. 
Ginger  must  wake  up.  Had  to  get  the  ship's  papers — captain  would  want 
to  see  them.  Would  he  keep  us  under  quarantine  .  .  .  pinolillos ?  Yes,  we’d 
be  quarantined  for  pi?iolillos. 

Hours  later  it  seemed,  the  Vagabunda  ground  her  nose  on  a  tiny  white 
shell  beach.  I  stepped  out  into  the  shallow  water  and  tried  to  lift  Ginger 
out  of  the  cockpit,  but  couldn't  make  it.  She  spilled  over  the  side  of  the 
canoe  and  lay  down  in  the  water,  muttering  something  about  Marenos. 
I  lay  down  beside  her.  Splashing  water  over  our  faces  restored  us  to  con¬ 
sciousness.  We  looked  round.  A  swamp  fringed  with  mangroves,  and  a 
narrow  beach  of  shell,  perhaps  thirty  feet  across.  Under  ordinary  circum¬ 
stances  no  camper's  paradise,  but  a  veritable  Eden  to  us. 

We  unloaded  the  canoe,  and  stacked  the  equipment  on  the  beach.  Ginger 
rummaged  round  in  the  grub  box  and  finally  brought  out  a  small  package. 
‘'I've  been  saving  this  for  Christmas,  but  I  think  we  need  it  now,"  she  said, 
unwrapping  a  bar  of  medicated  soap  that  she  had  secured  in  Salma  Cruz. 
We  made  scrubbing  wads  of  the  dry  swamp  grass  that  lined  the  beach,  and 
gave  ourselves  the  most  thorough  scouring  I  think  either  one  of  us  ever 
had.  The  soap  and  friction  set  the  bites  to  burning  until  we  danced  with 
the  torment  of  them.  But  what  a  joy  to  scrub  out  those  burrowing  black 
devils!  The  preliminary  de-ticking  was  done  by  moonlight.  Then  we  built 
a  big  fire  and  finished  the  job.  The  heat  of  the  flames  on  our  tortured  skins 
gave  the  sensation  of  scratching.  It  felt  good. 

I  built  another  fire  higher  on  the  beach,  and  put  the  still  on.  Examining 
our  possessions  by  firelight,  we  found  everything  full  of  pinolillos  except 
the  inside  of  the  tent.  While  I  put  that  up,  Ginger  prepared  some  food. 


298  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

At  three  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  December  16,  1935,  we  sat  in  the  smoke 
of  the  fire  and  enjoyed  what  I  will  always  believe  to  be  one  of  Ginger's 
gastronomic  triumphs:  black  coffee,  dried  fish,  and  toasted  tortillas. 

As  in  the  taleje  camp,  we  slept  in  relays.  I  took  the  first  watch,  and  tired 
as  I  was,  Ginger  kept  me  alert  and  busy.  I  held  her  hands  when  she  moaned, 
and  tried  to  scratch,  and  released  them  as  soon  as  she  quieted  down.  At 
daylight  she  awoke,  and  guarded  me.  We  alternated  until  the  heat  in  the 
tent  became  unbearable.  But  it  was  the  only  way  to  avoid  the  nasty  running 
sores  caused  by  skin  abrasions  in  the  tropics. 

The  mosquitoes  were  waiting  for  us  as  we  emerged  from  the  tent.  One 
look  and  we  ran  for  the  water.  “Am  I  glad  mosquitoes  can't  dive!"  said 
Ginger  as  she  rolled  round  in  the  shallow  lagoon,  ducking  her  head  each 
time  a  squadron  landed  on  her  face.  But  they  could  do  everything  else,  I 
reminded  her. 

Our  shorts  were  the  only  clothes  we  had  that  were  free  from  ticks,  and 
the  mosquitoes  were  making  the  most  of  that  circumstance.  It  occurred  to 
me  to  take  the  long-legged  jeans  and  long-sleeved  shirts  that  we  had  worn 
on  the  portage,  and  submerge  them  in  the  lagoon  while  we  ate  breakfast. 
They  were  black  with  pinolillos ,  but  I  knew  a  cure  for  that — we'd  drown 
them.  How  little,  despite  a  long  and  close  acquaintance,  did  I  know  my 
pinolillos\ 

Breakfast  was  an  ordeal — and  a  relay  race — as  we  dashed  from  the  smoke 
of  the  fire  to  the  greater  safety  of  the  water.  After  the  meal  I  hopefully  re¬ 
trieved  the  clothes.  Surely  by  now  they  were  free  from  ticks.  Not  a  chance. 
The  ticks  were  still  very  much  alive.  Their  immersion  seemed  to  have 
revived  them,  and  they  crawled  about  energetically  looking  for  a  host. 

It  was  the  ticks  or  us.  We'd  boil  them.  All  the  pots  and  the  five-gallon 
still-cans  were  filled  with  water  and  set  over  the  fire.  We  scoured  the  beach 
looking  for  wood.  The  termites  had  found  most  of  it  first,  but  we  burnt  it 
anyway — including  the  termites. 

As  the  clothes  began  to  boil,  we  stood  in  the  smoke  and  with  profound 
satisfaction  watched  our  late  tormenters  rise  to  the  surface  and  float  in 
the  foam.  Then  we  poured  scalding  water  over  everything  that  was  too 
big  to  boil.  The  tent,  sleeping  bag,  boxes,  everything  that  water  wouldn’t 
ruin,  got  a  scalding.  The  canvas  deck  and  cockpit  were  soused — myriads 
of  ticks  clung  to  them,  scraped  off  by  the  canoe’s  passage  through  the  brush. 

We  could  hardly  wait  for  the  clothes  to  cool  before  putting  them  on. 
But  blue  denim  didn't  mean  a  thing  to  those  Mexican  swamp  mosquitoes. 
They  were  all  equipped  with  the  latest  model  pneumatic  drills.  We  flew 
to  the  shelter  of  the  tent,  and  stayed  there  until  sundown. 

In  sober  truth  it  is  hard  to  exaggerate  the  danger  of  these  tropical  in¬ 
sects.  The  only  parallel  in  the  North  might  be  the  periodic  grasshopper 
and  locust  inundations.  The  reader  can  readily  imagine  the  result  to  animals 
and  men,  if  these  insects  were  carnivorous.  There  is  nothing  periodic  or 


299 


Swamp  Grass ,  Quicksand,  and  a  Few  Marenos 

intermittent  about  the  insects  who  live  south  of  the  tropic  of  Cancer.  And 
most  of  them  are  flesh-eaters.  Far  more  remarkable  to  us  than  Cortez' 
conquest  of  the  Aztecs,  was  the  ability  of  Pedro  de  Alvarado  and  others 
to  take  large  bodies  of  men,  unused  to  the  climate  and  wearing  European 
clothes,  long  distances  through  the  jungle  and  swampy  lowlands,  where 
not  one  step  can  be  taken  without  encountering  hordes  of  these  voracious 
man-killers. 

Soon  after  daybreak  of  the  second  day  we  were  loaded  up  and  under 
way.  We  had  by  no  means  recovered  from  our  bites;  and  our  bodies  were 
stiff' and  sore,  and  covered  with  small  running  ulcers.  It  would  take  days 
of  rest  to  eliminate  the  poison  and  repair  the  damage  of  the  long,  forced 
march.  Eighteen  hours  on  the  shell  beach  had  exhausted  the  firewood — 
but  not  the  mosquitoes.  Drugged  and  weary,  we  started  off  to  look  for 
some  Elysian  Field  where  there  was  a  flowing  spring  of  clear  water,  food 
in  abundance — and  no  bugs!  This  paradise  we  hoped  to  find  sometime  be¬ 
fore  Christmas — nine  days  away. 

We  paddled  along  the  winding  channels  among  the  many  islands  of  the 
estero.  The  lagoon  was  the  breeding  place  of  countless  thousands  of  wading 
birds,  but  the  low-lying,  swampy  islands  offered  no  subsistence  for  other 
animals.  After  travelling  about  six  miles,  Aguas  Pocas  opened  out  into 
Great  Pampa.  The  wrater  here  was  also  shallow',  most  of  it  tw'o  feet  or  less; 
and  in  many  places  the  swamp  grass  was  so  thick  that  travelling  became 
difficult.  One  of  us  had  to  perch  on  the  bow  and  push  the  mass  of  grass  to 
one  side  as  it  piled  up  in  front  of  the  canoe.  A  light  breeze  came  up  and  we 
hoisted  sail,  but  even  with  the  aid  of  the  wind  it  was  hard  to  pass  through 
the  miniature  Sargasso  Sea.  Finally  we  became  completely  entangled. 

I  was  on  the  bow  trying  to  w'ork  the  stuff  to  one  side,  when  Ginger  gave 
her  peculiar  little  squeal  that  meant  danger.  I  hastily  looked  round  to  see 
a  canoe  with  three  bidios  coming  towards  us  from  the  rear.  Frantically 
I  tore  the  grass  away.  It  seemed  to  multiply  under  my  fingers.  We  pushed 
against  the  soft  mud,  which  yielded  and  gave  no  purchase.  The  oncoming 
dugout  moved  easily  along  the  cleared  path  that  we  had  made.  Then 
Ginger  shouted,  "They’re  going  to  shoot!"  A  man  stood  in  the  bow, 
raised  his  gun,  and  fired. 

"Thank  God,"  I  said,  "it's  a  muzzle-loader."  The  shot  fell  short.  But 
a  second  man  stood  up  and  waved  a  gun,  which  looked  like  a  carbine  or  an 
army  rifle.  They  could  plug  all  day  long  with  a  muzzle-loader — but  a 
carbine  was  another  story.  I  grabbed  the  huger,  aimed  it  at  the  side  of  the 
dugout,  and  let  go.  The  Marenos  ducked  like  well-trained  snipers  as  I 
placed  a  second  and  a  third  shot  close  to  their  heads.  To  keep  them  down, 

I  began  splintering  the  wooden  platform  where  the  stern  poler  stands.  Not 
an  Indian  put  his  head  above  the  gunwale. 

"Shall  I  begin  shooting,  too?"  asked  Ginger,  while  I  w'aited  for  a  head 
to  show.  I  told  her  to  knock  splinters  off  the  stern  at  regular  intervals. 


300  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

This  would  keep  them  flattened  out  against  the  bottom  of  the  dugout,  and 
give  me  a  chance  to  free  the  canoe. 

A  breeze  came  up  while  I  pulled  and  pushed  at  the  packed  grass.  Ginger 
kept  firing  as  I  worked.  The  sky  was  like  an  inverted  oven,  and  I  could 
have  screamed  as  the  perspiration  and  the  heat  bit  into  the  hundreds  of 
pinolillo  punctures.  Were  we  never  going  to  get  the  canoe  out  of  the 
damned  grass?  A  gust  of  wind  swept  down  across  the  pampa.  It  hit  the 
sail  and  swung  the  canoe  broadside,  nearly  overturning  us.  I  got  the  boat 
stern  to  the  wind,  and  close-hauled  the  sheet  as  another  blast  struck  us. 
Held  in  the  grip  of  the  grass,  we  were  certain  that  the  mast  would  break 
with  the  strain.  The  little  sailboat  hung  poised  for  flight.  Again  the  wind 
slapped  the  sail.  This  time  the  canoe  lifted  her  stern,  shuddered,  and  shot 
out  of  the  densest  tangle  of  weeds  into  water  dotted  with  scattered  clumps 
of  grass. 

As  the  Vagabunda  skimmed  along,  we  looked  back  at  the  apparently 
empty  dugout  idly  floating  with  the  current.  I  skippered  while  Ginger  sat 
in  the  cockpit  and  watched.  In  a  short  time  we  were  out  of  the  weeds  en¬ 
tirely.  The  canoe  raced  along  making  the  spray  fly.  After  a  long  interval, 
Ginger  said  softly,  “For  the  love  of  Mike,  they're  still  down!  Why,  we’ll 
be  back  in  Santa  Ana  before  they  come  up  for  air.  I’d  certainly  like  to  see 
their  faces,  when  they  do  pop  up  and  find  us  gone.” 

It  was  blowing  up  so  we  headed  for  the  lee  of  an  island  in  the  distance. 
The  lagoon  was  so  shallow  that  when  small  breakers  rolled  up,  we  hit 
bottom.  The  norther  tearing  down  the  pampa  lashed  it  into  foam,  and  the 
canoe  raced  directly  before  the  wind.  Soon  we  swung  into  the  lee,  where 
the  mangroves  let  in  just  enough  wind  to  make  good  sailing,  and  the  lee 
shore  gave  us  smooth  water.  The  island  terminated  in  a  shell  point.  Before 
us  lay  the  great,  wind-swept  pampa ,  the  other  side  of  which  we  could  not 
see.  Since  it  would  be  suicidal  to  attempt  to  cross  it  in  the  norther,  we 
decided  to  make  camp  on  the  beach.  On  the  opposite  side  of  it  we  found 
the  remains  of  a  large  Mareno  camp,  consisting  of  several  crude  racks  for 
drying  fish  and  some  tumbledown  brush  shelters.  The  beach  was  about 
twenty  feet  wide  and  a  hundred  feet  long,  with  a  swamp  at  one  end  and  the 
pampa  at  the  other.  We  chose  a  fairly  open  place  on  the  lee  side  of  the 
island,  hoping  to  foil  the  mosquitoes  by  placing  the  camp  site  in  the  sweep 
of  the  wind. 

“We're  certainly  asking  for  trouble,”  Ginger  said,  as  we  unloaded  the 
canoe.  I  agreed  that  the  place  looked  like  the  old  home  town  of  all  the 
Marenos  who  lived  on  the  lagoon,  but  at  least  we  could  thank  them  for 
providing  us  with  firewood.  “And  only  luck  to  thank  for  getting  us  out 
of  that  mess  in  the  grass,”  she  commented  briefly. 

Any  one  who  has  never  tried  setting  up  camp  in  a  good  stiff  wind  has  a 
treat  in  store  for  them.  Eventually  Ginger  built  her  fire,  and  I  put  the  tent 
up.  These  preliminaries  over,  we  began  to  think  about  food.  We  were  as 


Swamp  Grass ,  Quicksand ,  and  a  Few  Marenos  SOI 

hungry  as  bears,  and  anything  we  could  secure  with  hook,  spear,  or  gun 
would  be  the  menu  for  supper.  So  we  paddled  to  the  calmer  water  on  the 
lee  of  the  island,  and  started  looking  about. 

I  took  a  position  on  the  bow,  with  the  spear  poised,  while  Ginger  man¬ 
aged  the  boat.  The  water  was  muddy,  and  my  only  target  was  a  swirl  in 
the  water.  But  beiore  we  could  fish  1  had  to  spear  the  bait.  I  pegged  at  a 
large  swirl  and  hit,  and  from  the  way  the  spear  shaft  flew  through  the 
water,  I  had  taken  a  big  fellow — perhaps  we  had  our  supper.  I  pulled  in 
the  line,  grabbed  the  shaft,  and  started  to  lift  our  catch  into  the  cockpit; 
but  decided  against  it  when  I  saw  the  creature  impaled  on  the  spear's 
prongs.  It  was  a  large  sting  ray  of  a  variety  new  to  us.  Three  wicked  look¬ 
ing,  bony  spines  protruded  from  the  mid-section  of  its  slender  tail;  its 
round,  flat  body  was  black  and  shiny.  In  the  muddy  water  of  the  lagoon, 
the  creature  had  been  invisible. 

“Whew!  What  ugly  wounds  you'd  get  from  that  fellow,"  said  Ginger. 
"Well,  anyway,  it's  good  for  bait."  We  cut  off  a  portion  of  its  flesh,  and 
paddling  out  from  shore  as  far  as  we  could  without  getting  into  the  full 
force  of  the  norther,  dropped  the  anchor.  Here,  after  a  stiff'  tussle,  we 
landed  two  large  fish,  also  of  a  type  new  to  us — possibly  catfish.  At  any 
rate  they  were  good  to  eat,  and  we  soon  had  them  sizzling  over  the  fire. 

By  the  time  the  meal  was  ready,  the  wind  was  so  strong  that  we  had  to 
retreat  to  the  shelter  of  the  tent  to  eat  it.  During  the  meal,  Ginger  asked 
my  plans  for  the  night.  "Sleep,"  I  answered,  "and  plenty  of  it.  We're 
behind  on  our  schedule."  That  brought  up  the  question  of  the  possible 
return  of  the  Marenos,  and  how  both  of  us  could  sleep  at  once  without 
scratching  the  pinolillo  bites.  There  was  little  likelihood  of  the  Marenos 
returning  during  the  norther.  As  long  as  the  wind  blew  we  were  safe.  But 
to  make  certain  that  we  were  not  taken  by  surprise,  I  would  devise  an 
alarm  that  would  waken  us  instantly  if  any  one  approached  the  tent.  The 
danger  of  scratching  could  be  eliminated  by  making  "boxing  gloves"  out 
of  our  clothes,  and  tying  them  securely  round  our  hands.  This  last  idea 
amused  Ginger  immensely;  she  laughed  heartily.  "You'll  see,"  I  said  con¬ 
fidently.  "It  will  work.  At  least  we  can’t  dig  in  with  our  fingernails."  But 
like  so  many  bright  ideas,  it  had  one  fatal  and  unpredictable  flaw — it 
worked  too  well! 

My  Mareno  alarm  was  a  minor  masterpiece.  I  entirely  encircled  the 
camp  with  a  line,  and  tied  one  end  to  a  slipknot  from  which  were  suspended 
two  of  Ginger’s  kettles.  Anything  coming  in  contact  with  the  line  would 
drop  the  kettles  close  beside  my  head.  Whereupon  I  would  seize  my  trusty 
Luger  and  prepare  to  meet  the  foe. 

We  worked  long  and  diligently  at  the  job  of  encasing  our  hands,  and 
were  rather  proud  of  our  ability  to  do  it  without  outside  aid.  The  last  knot 
on  Ginger’s  right  hand  had  been  tied  by  using  a  slipknot  and  pulling  with 
our  teeth. 


302  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

I  went  to  sleep  feeling  both  virtuous  and  secure.  The  two  stumbling- 
blocks  to  a  good  night's  rest  had  been  settled  to  my  satisfaction.  Some  time 
towards  morning  I  awakened  to  the  sound  of  falling  metal,  and  jumped 
for  my  gun.  But  my  gun  hand  was  wrapped  up  in  my  shorts.  I  tried  the 
other  hand,  but,  wrapped  in  the  folds  of  my  shirt,  it,  too,  was  useless.  “Do 
something!"  I  cried  to  Ginger.  “There  are  Marenos  out  there,  and  I've 
got  to  use  my  gun."  She  motioned  towards  my  bound  hands  and  helplessly 
waved  her  own.  I  began  biting  at  the  knot  on  her  right  hand — the  slipknot 
that  we  had  so  cleverly  tied.  It  loosened  a  bit.  She  giggled,  as  I  frantically 
tugged  with  my  teeth,  and  finally  removed  the  makeshift  glove  from  her 
hand.  She  grabbed  her  gun,  unzipped  the  tent,  and  looked  out  on  the  moon- 
bathed  camp  site.  Then  she  howled  with  laughter  as  she  reported  that  the 
wind  had  tipped  over  the  still  can.  My  burglar  alarm  was  still  intact. 

The  next  morning,  coping  with  the  wind  taxed  our  ingenuity.  We 
awoke  to  a  blast  that  almost  carried  the  tent  from  its  moorings,  and  crawled 
out  into  heavy  gusts  that  would  have  whipped  it  to  pieces  in  another  hour. 
We  immediately  untied  the  ridge  rope  and  let  the  tent  down,  piling  logs 
on  it  to  keep  the  wind  from  snatching  it  from  beneath  our  fingers.  The 
gale  increased  while  we  worked.  It  pelted  our  faces  with  spray  picked  up 
from  th e  pampa,  where  black  clouds  of  spume  gyrated  like  small  cyclones. 
How  to  cook,  build  a  fire,  or  distil  water  in  the  face  of  a  wind  that  we 
could  hardly  stand  against  was  an  issue  that  had  to  be  met.  We  went  to 
work  cutting  brush  for  a  windbreak.  By  noon  we  had  constructed  a  sub¬ 
stantial,  three-sided  stockade  out  of  brush,  and  poles  salvaged  from  the 
Mareno  camp.  The  enclosure  was  large  enough  to  contain  the  tent  and  the 
fireplace.  To  build  a  big  enough  fire  to  distil  water,  we  dug  a  hole  close 
to  the  windbreak,  and  lined  it  with  mud  from  the  swamp.  This  served  its 
purpose  admirably,  and  the  still  can  soon  whistled. 

After  lunch  we  strapped  on  our  guns  and  started  out  to  see  what  a  swamp 
looked  like.  Its  beginning  was  within  twenty  feet  of  our  camp.  Since  travel¬ 
ling  through  it  seemed  impossible,  we  skirted  a  narrow  strip  of  sand  to  the 
east,  keeping  an  eye  out  for  game.  The  wind  lashed  the  mangroves  and 
whipped  their  branches  on  our  heads  and  into  our  faces,  so  that  to  travel  at 
all  we  had  to  cut  through  the  trees  and  enter  the  swamp.  Here,  hundreds 
of  lagoon  birds  had  taken  refuge  from  the  norther  that  roared  overhead. 
Rather  than  face  its  blasts,  they  almost  refused  to  fly,  huddling  disconso¬ 
lately  behind  any  available  shelter. 

Now  well  within  the  confines  of  the  swamp,  we  stopped  and  looked  about 
us.  It  was  a  strange  and  curiously  fascinating  place.  The  turgid  black  water, 
covered  with  slime  and  full  of  rotting  vegetation,  seemed  to  belong  to  some 
remote  geologic  age — the  earth  before  the  advent  of  mammals.  Mosses 
and  other  parasitic  growths  hung  in  wraithlike  festoons  from  the  dark 
trees.  In  the  perpetual  twilight  and  hot  steaming  vapours  of  the  swamp 
there  was  a  commingling  of  the  elements,  as  there  had  been  in  the  begin- 


SOS 


Swamp  Grass ,  Quicksand ,  and  a  Few  Marenos 

ning.  No  sound,  except  the  soughing  of  the  wind  and  the  ceaseless  murmur 
of  the  waters,  broke  the  stillness. 

The  silence  was  shattered  by  an  explosive  report.  Startled,  we  turned 
quickly  to  see  a  large  alligator  swim  off.  It  had  slid  unseen  down  the  incline 
of  a  log  and  smacked  the  water.  Skimming  along  like  an  aquaplane,  its 
body  seemed  hardly  to  touch  the  surface,  and  its  feet  thrashed  the  water 
like  paddle  wheels. 

“What  do  you  say  we  go  into  the  swamp?  I'd  like  to  explore  one." 

“I  suppose  if  we’re  ever  going  to  know  anything  about  one  at  first  hand, 
we'll  have  to  go  into  it,"  Ginger  answered.  “But  we’re  sure  to  get  wet 
and  dirty — it  looks  deep." 

We  plunged  off  into  the  ooze,  and  were  soon  waist-deep  in  slime  and 
water  that  was  full  of  living  matter.  Leeches  fastened  themselves  on  our 
legs,  and  our  feet  began  to  itch  with  sabanones,  a  fungus  which  lives  in  the 
mud  and  attacks  the  feet.  It  was  difficult  to  make  headway  because  of  the 
tangled,  rotting  vegetation.  Each  step  was  a  gamble.  We  had  often  won¬ 
dered  whether  a  human  being  could  traverse  a  tropical  swamp,  and  what 
his  sensations  would  be  once  in  one.  Now  we  wrere  finding  out.  In  many 
places  we  sank  to  our  armpits  in  the  ooze,  holding  our  gun  belts  and 
machetes  high  above  our  heads.  Snakes  slithered  into  the  water,  and  clouds 
of  mosquitoes  swarmed  in  the  gloom.  At  last  we  emerged  on  to  firmer 
ground. 

We  began  to  follow  the  firmer  ground  back  to  camp,  crawling  through 
dense  mangrove  thickets,  until  we  came  to  a  large  open  stretch  of  sand, 
perhaps  five  hundred  feet  long.  Its  surface  was  unbroken  except  for  a 
little  tide  drift,  and  it  was  as  flat  as  a  billiard  table.  “This  is  surely  a  break 
for  us,"  I  said.  “Wish  we  had  this  kind  of  travelling  all  the  way  back." 
Tall,  straight  mangrove  trees  fringed  the  sand  island,  and  though  there 
was  nothing  obviously  wrong  about  it,  I  began  to  have  an  uneasy  feeling 
as  we  approached  it.  For  some  unknown  reason  I  shuddered  and  stopped. 

“What's  the  matter?"  Ginger  asked. 

“I  don’t  know,  unless  I’ve  got  the  jitters  from  the  swamp.  Or  maybe  the 
wind's  gone  down  and  some  Marenos  are  on  their  way  to  play  with  us. 
Let’s  go."  I  shook  off' the  premonition  and  led  the  way  across  the  sand. 

About  thirty  feet  further  on,  another  sharp  premonition  of  danger  swept 
over  me.  “Come  on,  Ginger,  let’s  go  back  to  the  mangroves.  There’s 
trouble  here." 

“I  feel  that  way  myself."  Ginger  was  puzzled.  “But  what  about?  I  can’t 
see  anything  wrong." 

Nevertheless,  it  seemed  best  to  play  the  hunch,  so  we  started  back  the 
way  we  had  come.  Then  it  happened.  Without  an  instant's  warning,  I 
broke  through  the  surface  of  the  sand  and  went  down  to  my  knees.  A  circle 
of  water  appeared  on  the  sand  round  me.  “Run,  Ginger!"  I  shouted.  She 


304  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

ran  for  the  mangroves,  water  appearing  in  each  footstep  as  she  sped  towards 
the  trees. 

Now  I  had  sunk  in  the  quicksand  to  above  my  knees.  Struggling  would 
only  make  me  sink  the  faster.  My  mind  raced  helplessly  over  the  few 
alternatives  for  action.  A  few  seconds  delay  might  be  gained  by  distributing 
my  weight  over  as  big  an  area  as  possible,  so  I  threw  my  body  forward. 
Ginger  was  lopping  off  branches  as  fast  as  she  could;  but  it  was  evident 
that  by  the  time  she  could  cut  enough  to  make  a  path  in  and  out,  I’d  be 
under.  Furthermore,  I  couldn’t  climb  out  of  my  sandy  tomb  without  the 
aid  of  heavy  pieces  of  wood  to  use  as  hoists.  It  was  doubtful  if  she  could 
drag  them  across  the  semi-fluid  surface  without  getting  sucked  in  herself, 
even  if  she  had  time  to  procure  them. 

The  sand  was  now  creeping  round  my  waist.  I  looked  at  the  sky.  The 
tall  trees  silhouetted  against  it  gave  me  one  last  forlorn  hope.  I  called  to 
Ginger,  “Try  cutting  down  that  tall  tree  nearest  me,  and  fell  it  this  way.” 
She  quickly  attacked  it  with  swift  strokes  of  her  machete.  The  sand  had 
reached  my  armpits.  The  scheme  was  hopeless;  she  couldn’t  get  the  tree 
down  in  time.  Her  sobs  mingled  with  the  ring  of  the  machete  as  she  cast 
quick  glances  in  my  direction,  and  then  redoubled  the  fury  of  her  attack 
upon  the  hard  mangrove  wood.  What  would  become  of  her?  How  could 
she  ever  get  out  of  the  country  alone?  Black  panic  seized  me.  We  had 
often  told  ourselves  that  death  was  only  a  moment  of  acute  discomfort,  and 
soon  over.  But  this  other  thing?  We  were  a  team,  reinforcing  each  other 
physically  and  morally;  we  could  face  together  any  contingency,  but 
alone  ...  I  didn’t  know. 

My  arms  were  raised  and  the  sand  had  crept  up  round  my  shoulders, 
when  Ginger  looked  again.  With  a  cry  of  horror  she  slashed  at  the  tree 
from  another  angle.  Then  a  thrill  of  joy  shot  up  from  my  toes.  With  only 
my  head  and  forearms  above  the  sand,  I  had  hit  bottom.  I  sent  up  a  prayer 
of  thankfulness;  and  turned  to  shout  the  good  news  to  Ginger.  But  at  that 
moment  she  turned.  Seeing  just  my  head  above  the  surface  of  the  sand, 
she  dropped  her  machete,  and  ran  for  the  small  stack  of  branches  she  had 
piled  near  the  edge  of  the  quagmire.  I  knew  what  was  in  her  mind.  She  was 
going  to  pick  up  that  futile  bunch  of  branches  and  run  out  to  me  with  them. 
And  she,  too,  would  be  caught  in  the  treacherous  sand.  Nothing  I  could  say 
would  stop  her  if  she  thought  I  was  simply  trying  to  prevent  her  from 
taking  the  risk.  But  she  must  be  stopped.  Some  word,  some  counter  sug¬ 
gestion  of  danger  equally  imperative  that  she  would  respond  to  automati¬ 
cally.  I  had  it!  I  shouted  with  all  the  emphasis  and  fear  that  I  could  put  into 
it,  “Ginger!  Quick — Marenos!” 

She  whirled,  dropping  the  branches  and  reaching  for  her  gun.  Then 
quietly,  in  a  matter-of-fact  voice,  I  said,  “Listen,  I’ve  struck  bottom.  The 
danger  is  over.’’ 

“What  did  you  say?’’  she  asked  in  a  dazed,  uncomprehending  voice.  I 


Swamp  Grass ,  Quicksand ,  and  a  Few  Marenos  305 

repeated  the  news.  “But  the  Marenos?”  she  questioned.  I  explained.  At 
last  she  understood  and  went  back  to  tree-cutting. 

I  had  instructed  her  to  fell  the  tree  in  my  direction.  It  not  only  fell 
“in”  but  on.  I  saw  it  coming,  closed  my  eyes,  and  ducked  down  in  the 
sandy  ooze.  The  sand  shivered  and  shook  with  the  impact.  I  tried  to  get 
my  head  above  the  surface,  bumping  it  against  the  trunk.  At  last  I  was 
out  in  the  air  again,  but  could  neither  see  nor  breathe.  Sand  plastered  my 
eyes  and  plugged  my  nose  and  mouth.  Although  my  arms  were  above  the 
surface,  they  were  caught  in  the  branches  and  I  couldn't  use  them.  Then 
Ginger  was  there,  doing  the  job  for  me.  After  she  cleaned  my  face,  I  opened 
my  eyes  and  stared  up  into  her  tear-stained  face,  trying  to  smile  reassur¬ 
ingly.  “Well,  so  far  so  good,  but  how  am  I  going  to  get  out  of  here?  I'm 
stuck  fast.” 

We  tried  using  various  arrangements  of  branches,  but  I  could  secure  no 
leverage  with  any  of  them.  Exerting  pressure  on  anything  placed  upon 
the  surface  of  the  quicksand  simply  caused  it  to  yield.  Then  we  had  a  new 
idea.  Ginger  cut  and  trimmed  a  limb  close  to  the  crotch,  so  that  it  formed 
a  hook  with  an  eight  foot  handle.  We  worked  this  down  beside  my  leg, 
and  with  a  great  deal  of  wriggling,  I  finally  managed  to  get  my  foot  in  the 
stirrup.  After  considerable  manoeuvring  I  bent  my  knee  into  a  walking 
position.  With  the  aid  of  my  crutch,  and  by  pulling  myself  along  on  the 
overhead  branches,  I  could  move  forward  an  inch  or  two  at  a  time.  Quick¬ 
sand  is  easy  to  get  into,  but  it's  hell  to  get  out  of;  and  it  was  an  hour  before 
we  scrambled  over  the  fallen  tree,  and  at  last  sat  down  on  terra  firma.  And 
it  takes  quicksand  to  make  you  appreciate  what  that  phrase  means! 

I  took  the  sand-clogged  Lugger  from  its  holster  and  looked  at  it  ruefully. 
“Well,  there's  no  use  doing  any  more  hunting  today,”  I  said.  “We  might 
as  well  go  back  to  camp.” 

The  norther  blew  itself  out  sometime  during  the  night,  and  soon  after 
sunup  we  pulled  away  from  the  little  shell  beach.  Approaching  the  southern 
terminus  of  the  island,  we  found  our  way  blocked  by  a  long  sand  bar  ex¬ 
tending  out  from  the  point  of  the  island  due  west  to  the  faint  shore  line 
that  separated  the  gulf  from  the  lagoon.  It  was  a  matted  tangle  of  brush, 
stumps,  and  tide  drift,  so  we  went  back  to  the  island  and  portaged  across 
our  old  camp  site  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  pampa.  Once  again  we  em¬ 
barked,  our  goal  an  estuary  leading  into  the  next  series  of  waterways. 

It  was  a  beautiful  tropical  morning.  The  air  was  as  soft  and  as  bland  as 
cream.  There  was  no  wind,  and  the  great  inland  sea  was  like  a  burnished 
mirror.  No  wind  meant  we  should  have  to  paddle.  It  would  take  us  all  day 
to  reach  the  shore  line,  but  neither  one  of  us  cared.  In  the  clear  air,  the 
pampa  to  the  east  merged  into  the  high  mountains  of  Chiapas.  The  whole 
world  was  a  symphony  in  blue.  Mountains,  sea,  and  sky  were  infinite 
gradations  of  azure,  turquoise,  and  soft  hazy  blue-greys  that  melted  into 
each  other.  After  yesterday's  experience,  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  could 


306 


Enchanted  Vagabonds 

never  get  enough  of  simply  looking  at  great,  unfilled  spaces.  Yet  there 
was  a  fly  in  the  ointment  of  this  perfection — a  vague  sense  of  uneasiness 
Something  about  the  venture  was  ill-timed.  I  tried  to  localize  it  without 
success.  This  was  the  only  calm  weather  we  had  had  in  weeks.  There  was 
no  sign  of  wind  anywhere.  On  the  surface,  conditions  were  ideal. 

We  paddled  along  in  silence.  Perhaps  this  premonitory  feeling  was  only 
the  ebb  tide  of  the  continuous  excitement  to  which  we  had  been  subjected. 
In  postponement,  and  in  returning  to  camp  would  lie  the  real  danger.  The 
Marenos  would  be  out  fishing  in  their  canoes  during  this  calm.  The  smoke 
from  our  campfire  must  have  been  seen.  Once  again  I  scrutinized  the 
horizon.  The  high  mountains  to  the  east  still  wore  their  halos  of  grey-blue 
haze,  to  us  an  unmistakable  sign  of  good  weather. 

Perplexed  and  rather  shamefaced,  I  turned  to  Ginger.  “I've  got  another 
hunch,  though  heaven  knows  why - " 

“So  have  I,"  she  interrupted.  “We'd  better  go  back.'' 

Since  we  were  only  a  half  mile  from  shore,  we  decided  to  stay  there  and 
enjoy  a  leisurely  swim  while  awaiting  further  developments.  We  splashed 
round  in  the  warm  water,  keeping  an  eye  out  for  sharks,  and  then  stretched 
out  on  deck  to  let  the  sunshine  soak  in.  A  half  hour  passed  in  which  nothing 
unusual  occurred.  “Damn!"  I  said.  “I'll  bet  we  won't  have  another  chance 
to  cross  this  pampa  for  two  weeks." 

“That  may  be  true,"  Ginger  answered,  “but  nevertheless,  I  don't  think 
it's  wise  to  go  off  in  the  face  of  this  hunch — or  whatever  it  is." 

“We're  always  between  the  devil  and  the  deep  blue  sea,"  I  grumbled. 
“If  we  were  back  in  camp  with  the  wind  down,  the  mosquitoes  would  eat 
us  alive.  And  if  we  don't  get  out  of  here,  every  naked  devil  on  the  lagoon 
will  be  out  in  his  canoe,  looking  for  something  to  shoot  at.  The  only  time 
we're  free  from  mosquitoes  and  Marenos  is  when  it's  worth  our  life  to 
travel." 

We  played  round  for  a  half  hour,  and  were  going  over  the  side  for 
another  dip  when  I  saw  a  phenomenon  to  the  north  that  riveted  my  atten¬ 
tion — a  hard  black  line  that  looked  as  though  it  were  drawn  in  India  ink. 
We  both  looked  at  it.  “I  wonder  what  it  means?"  puzzled  Ginger.  “I've 
never  seen  anything  like  it  before." 

“I  don't  know,"  I  answered.  “Say,  look  at  the  mountains!"  White 
clouds  rolled  over  their  crests,  skimming  down  their  sides  as  though  a 
giant  were  pouring  milk  over  them.  Then  I  knew.  We  were  watching  the 
inception  of  the  dread  hurricane,  whose  local  name  is  Tehuantepecer,  a 
norther  in  its  most  destructive  aspect. 

There  was  no  time  to  lose.  We  grabbed  the  paddles  and  struck  out  for 
shore.  Marenos  and  mosquitoes  be  damned.  That  shell  beach  was  our  only 
place  of  refuge.  As  we  sped  shoreward,  the  black  line  widened,  and  its 
lower  edge  turned  to  white.  We  knew  what  that  creeping  line  of  white 
meant.  The  wind  was  rolling  up  the  pampa  into  a  wall  of  foaming  water, 


Swa?np  Grass ,  Quicksand ,  and  a  Few  Marenos  307 

which  rushed  across  the  lagoon  like  an  avalanche.  In  its  resistless  force  it 
was  overwhelming.  Great  clouds  torn  loose  from  their  mountain  moorings 
scudded  across  the  darkening  sky. 

The  canoe  skidded  underneath  the  mangroves  and  shot  into  the  beach. 
Not  for  us,  this  time,  a  careful,  calculated  handling  of  our  equipment.  We 
threw  the  boxes  on  the  beach.  The  canoe  must  be  gotten  out  of  harm’s  way 
before  that  rushing  wall  of  water  engulfed  it  and  smashed  it  to  kindling 
wood.  While  we  worked,  short  choppy  seas  began  pounding  the  shore.  At 
last  we  and  our  possessions  were  out  of  the  water,  but  by  no  means  safe 
yet  from  the  gale.  Battling  against  a  wind  that  knocked  us  on  our  haunches, 
we  dragged  our  things  and  rolled  the  canoe  into  the  shelter  of  the  wind¬ 
break.  And  thanked  our  lucky  stars  that  it  was  ready  for  our  use,  and  that 
we  were  there  to  use  it.  We  were  drenched  in  spray  from  the  great  clouds 
of  vapour  that  roared  across  the  pampa  to  dash  themselves  against  the 
mangroves.  The  air  seemed  to  be  full  of  the  shrieks  of  ten  thousand  fire 
engines.  Black  columns  of  water,  with  whitened  crests,  spun  about  like 
whirling  dervishes. 

Safe  behind  the  sheltering  windbreak,  Ginger  unrolled  the  sleeping  bag 
and  stretched  out  on  it.  "Imagine  being  out  in  that,”  she  said.  "Dan,  from 
now  on,  as  long  as  we  live,  let’s  play  our  hunches.” 

"Listen,”  I  answered.  "It’s  more  dangerous  to  get  a  fixed  idea  in  our 
minds  about  hunches  than  to  disregard  them.  We  don't  know  anything 
about  them,  really.  Suppose  we  refused  to  act  unless  we  had  a  ‘hunch.’ 
First  thing  you  know,  all  our  decisions  would  be  based  on  feeling  instead 
of  logic  and  reason.  I  think  it's  bad  business  to  form  conclusions  about 
things  when  we  only  know  part  of  the  story.” 

"What  about  the  quicksand?  What  about  this  storm?”  Ginger  argued. 
"How  could  we  reason  either  situation  out  from  the  data  we  had?  This 
morning  this  camp,  full  of  mosquitoes  and  potential  Marenos,  was  all 
wrong.  The  calm,  peaceful  pampa  was  right.  Now  this  is  right  and  the  other 
wrong.  ” 

"You’re  answering  your  own  argument,”  I  said.  "Nothing’s  inherently 
right  or  wrong  in  either  situation.  The  circumstances  changed,  and  conse¬ 
quently  we  reversed  our  position.  We  have  to  shift  with  the  times.  Nature 
does  it,  nothing  there  follows  a  straight  line.  The  water  birds  aren’t  on 
the  lagoon  now,  or  in  the  air,  they’re  in  the  mangroves.  Remember,  most 
of  our  premonitions  have  to  do  with  weather.  The  explanation  is  probably 
exceedingly  simple.  The  norther  blowing  up  would  have  some  effect  on 
the  area  just  ahead  of  it,  naturally.  It  may  have  increased  the  air  pressure. 
This  would  in  turn  affect  our  ears,  and  our  subconscious  mind  would  trans¬ 
fer  it  into  a  warning.  Or  it  may  have  caused  a  change  in  the  electrical  content 
of  the  air,  which  might  have  some  effect  on  us.  Yesterday  we  walked  across 
ground  that  probably  vibrated  beneath  our  feet — and  we  were  too  tired  to 
notice.  But  that  doesn't  mean  that  because  our  conscious  faculties  some- 


308  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

times  fail  to  report  things  that  we  must  necessarily  remain  unaware  of 
them.  There  may  be  a  special  kind  of  hyper-sensitivity  that  operates  in 
moments  of  extreme  danger.  These  are  matters,  however,  that  we  can't  be 
too  sure  of,  and  it's  highly  doubtful  that  they  are  wholly  dependable.  See 
what  I  mean?" 

" You're  probably  right,"  Ginger  conceded.  "It's  the  middle  way  be¬ 
tween  the  two  extremes  that  we  have  to  follow.  I'm  glad  we  talked  this 
over.  I'd  begun  to  take  our  hunches  a  little  too  seriously." 

I  was  also  glad  that  we  had  talked  it  over,  for  there  had  been  a  rather 
remarkable  series  of  coincidences  of  this  nature  during  our  months  of  travel. 
It  was  becoming  increasingly  easy  to  rely  on  premonitions  rather  than  on 
ourselves.  And  that  I  felt,  was  a  highly  dangerous  procedure.  Eventually 
it  would  undermine  our  common  sense.  As  I  had  observed  it,  there  was  a 
variability  about  life  and  the  operation  of  natural  laws  that  precluded  hasty 
generalizations  based  on  limited  data  and  ill-digested  facts.  The  human 
mind  is  too  prone  to  incorporate  scanty  knowledge  into  systems,  interpre¬ 
tations,  and  formulas.  Or  it  seizes  an  idea  advanced  as  a  pure  speculation 
only,  and  decks  it  out  in  the  mantle  of  indisputable  fact. 

There  is  a  tree  that  grows  in  the  tropics,  all  of  whose  seeds  look  alike. 
However,  they  are  not  alike.  True,  they  grow  in  the  same  pod,  fall  to  the 
ground  at  the  same  time,  and  in  every  way — but  one — exactly  resemble 
each  other.  Some  of  the  seeds  germinate  immediately.  Others  must  remain 
two  or  three  years  before  they  sprout.  Still  others,  under  certain  conditions, 
may  remain  dormant  for  fifty  years  or  more  before  they  send  forth  shoots. 
It  certainly  would  be  difficult  to  formulate  an  axiom  about  this  tree  from 
hasty  observation.  Its  delayed  germination  refutes  the  general  belief  that 
fertile  seed  of  the  same  species  in  combination  with  sun,  suitable  soil,  and 
water  always  produces  new  growth  within  a  given  period.  Indeed,  from 
watching  only  this  one  tree,  you  could  make  a  new  rule:  Trees  of  the 
same  species  germinate  under  conditions  not  wholly  dependent  on  soil, 
moisture  and  climate;  some  unknown  factor,  determines  the  time  of  germi¬ 
nation. 

After  our  discussion  we  began  to  think  about  food.  If  we  were  to  be 
marooned  for  any  length  of  time,  it  might  be  well  to  work  our  way  through 
the  mangroves  to  the  lee  side  of  the  island  and  try  our  luck  at  fishing.  The 
storm  would  have  driven  the  fish  to  the  calmer  waters  of  the  lee.  With 
luck  we  might  pick  up  something.  Armed  with  the  harpoon  and  our  guns, 
we  waded  along  the  shallow  water  looking  for  bait.  We  soon  came  upon 
some  odd-looking  little  fish  which  stuck  their  heads  out  just  above  the 
surface  of  the  water.  They  were  all  right  for  bait  but  too  small  to  harpoon. 
"How  are  we  ever  going  to  catch  them?"  I  said. 

"Shoot  them"  Ginger  answered,  drawing  a  bead  on  one.  Her  bullet 
stunned  the  fish,  and  I  ran  and  picked  it  up — the  oddest  marine  animal  we 
had  yet  seen.  It  was  perhaps  six  inches  long  and  was  shaped  like  a  catfish. 


Szvamp  Grass,  Quicksand,  and  a  Few  Marenos  309 

“Dan,  it  has  four  eyes/'  Ginger  exclaimed.  It  had — two  perfect  pairs  of 
eyes,  one  pair  set  above  the  other.  With  its  upper  set,  it  could  see  every¬ 
thing  above  the  surface.  The  other  pair  informed  it  of  underwater  events. 
We  shot  enough  of  them  for  bait,  and  began  fishing. 

The  dinner  of  broiled  fish  over,  we  went  to  work  checking  our  equip¬ 
ment.  We  took  good  care  of  it  each  day,  but  there  were  always  things  that 
went  unnoticed  until  they  received  the  closest  scrutiny.  Ginger  found  weak 
points  in  the  tent  and  in  the  sail  which  she  carefully  reinforced.  I  polished, 
oiled,  and  sharpened  every  piece  of  metal  that  had  a  cutting  edge.  Each 
tiny  spot  of  rust  was  a  potential  menace  that  had  to  be  eradicated. 

The  tent  in  particular  had  to  be  safeguarded  from  rough  or  careless 
handling,  since  it  was  the  only  real  protection  we  had  against  the  insects. 
The  ground  was  always  swept  clean  of  even  the  tiniest  twig  or  stone  before 
we  set  it  up.  If  the  ground  was  rough,  we  first  covered  it  with  palm 
branches,  leaves,  or  leaf  mould  as  a  cushion  for  the  fragile  fabric.  We 
never  even  walked  or  sat  on  the  tent  floor. 

Ginger  took  care  of  all  the  fabric,  including  our  clothes,  the  sail,  sleeping 
bag,  grub  sacks — anything  made  of  cloth.  In  addition  to  this,  she  took  care 
of  the  grub  box  and  all  it  contained:  the  mess  kit,  food,  and  so  on.  She  also 
attended  to  her  gun  and  hunting  knife.  My  job  was  to  care  for  the  canoe, 
all  the  ropes,  lines,  and  wooden  articles  of  the  equipment,  including  the 
paddles  and  the  mast;  the  harpoon;  the  equipment  box  and  its  contents, 
which  included  the  camera  and  films,  diaries,  first-aid  kit,  fishing  gear, 
and  so  on. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  trip  I  used  to  tease  Ginger  about  her  extreme 
fussiness.  She  never  touched  a  grub  sack  or  any  article  of  her  domestic 
equipment  if  her  hands  were  the  least  bit  soiled.  After  every  meal  she 
scoured  and  scrubbed  each  mess  pan  until  it  shone.  Her  reply  to  my  com¬ 
ments  was  that  she  liked  doing  it.  In  time  I  also  grew  to  like  the  task  of 
caring  for  my  tools;  quite  as  much  for  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  my 
knives  were  sharp  enough  to  cut  paper,  as  for  the  necessity  of  having  them 
sharp. 

The  wind  went  down  about  seven  o'clock.  We  talked  of  starting  out 
that  night,  but  decided  it  would  be  better  to  wait  until  just  before  daylight. 
Most  of  our  gear  we  packed,  and  moved  the  canoe  down  to  the  beach,  so 
that  we  could  set  off  early  the  next  morning. 

The  absence  of  wind  increased  the  likelihood  of  Marenos.  To  guard 
against  a  surprise  visit,  we  built  a  large  fire  in  camp  to  indicate  that  we 
were  still  there,  and  then  quietly  made  our  bed  in  the  canoe.  If  the  Marenos 
did  come  to  the  island,  they  would  confine  their  attentions  to  the  camp  at 
first.  As  under  other  similar  circumstances,  we  took  turns  standing  watch. 

I  was  on  watch  about  2  a.m.  when  I  began  to  feel  apprehensive.  The 
sensation  of  being  the  target  for  invisible  eyes  grew  until  I  could  stand  it 


810  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

no  longer.  I  wakened  Ginger,  "Better  get  up,  something's  wrong,"  I 
whispered.  She  rubbed  the  sleep  out  of  her  eyes  and  sat  up. 

We  quietly  slipped  over  the  side,  and  made  our  way  to  the  lee  side  of 
the  lagoon.  There  was  nothing  to  be  seen  there.  The  water  reflected  only 
the  light  of  the  stars;  not  a  ripple  disturbed  its  smooth  expanse.  But  I  still 
felt  unsatisfied.  Leaving  Ginger  on  watch,  I  stole  through  the  trees  and 
began  to  encircle  the  camp.  This  was  productive  of  nothing  unusual.  I  went 
back  to  the  beach  where  I  had  left  Ginger. 

"I'm  sure  I  just  saw  a  canoe,"  she  whispered.  "I  even  heard  the  splash 
of  the  poles.  It  landed  in  that  clump  of  mangroves  behind  camp.  We'd 
better  pack  up  the  rest  of  our  things  and  get  out  of  here." 

We  crept  through  the  trees,  quickly  transported  the  balance  of  the  equip¬ 
ment  to  the  beach,  and  slid  the  canoe  down  into  the  water.  As  we  were 
stowing  away  the  last  of  the  boxes,  a  spurt  of  flame  from  the  camp  il¬ 
lumined  the  darkness,  and  was  followed  by  the  throaty  roar  of  a  muzzle- 
loader.  Buckshot  rattled  through  the  foliage  round  us.  Ginger  ducked 
behind  a  tree  and  sprayed  the  brush  with  bullets,  while  I  pushed  the  canoe 
into  deeper  water.  There  were  no  answering  volleys  from  shore.  The  canoe 
afloat,  I  pumped  shots,  while  Ginger  left  her  tree  and  raced  for  the  cockpit. 
I  followed  her.  We  broke  all  records  for  swinging  the  paddles. 

Well  out  of  range,  we  stopped  and  looked  back  at  our  hurriedly  vacated 
shell  beach.  There  was  no  sight  or  sound  of  a  native.  We  wondered  why 
we  had  been  the  recipients  of  only  one  load  of  buckshot,  finally  concluding 
that  our  attackers  had  only  one  gun,  and  neither  time  nor  opportunity  to 
reload.  With  heart-felt  sighs  of  relief,  we  bent  to  the  paddles  and  started 
across  the  dark  pampa. 

After  sunrise  the  whole  lagoon  became  covered  with  mirages.  They  were 
similar  to  the  familiar  desert  phenomena,  except  that  they  were  much  more 
vivid  and  detailed.  The  water  forms  a  smoother  plane  for  the  strata  of  air 
to  settle  upon  than  the  rough  contours  of  the  desert.  These  air  strata  of 
different  densities  bend  the  light  rays  passing  through  them,  and  act  as 
mirrors.  We  had  seen  mirages  before,  but  nothing  so  weird  and  beautiful 
as  these  distorted,  inverted,  and  elevated  landscapes  wrought  in  silver  and 
gold  through  which  we  travelled.  Only  when  the  sun  is  near  the  horizon, 
in  the  early  morning  and  late  afternoon,  are  the  brilliant  golden  lights 
reflected  in  the  mirage.  We  paddled  through  an  unreal,  fantastic  world  in 
which  nothing  was  recognizable  except  the  water  surrounding  the  canoe. 
The  optical  illusion  of  a  world  transformed  by  the  Midas  touch  was  aesthet¬ 
ically  satisfying,  but  hard  to  navigate  in.  There  were  no  landmarks  to  guide 
us,  and  we  could  only  keep  on  paddling  in  the  general  direction  of  the 
southern  shore.  We  sailed  through  clumps  of  golden  mangroves,  across 
islands  that  vanished  with  our  passage. 

About  ten  o’clock  the  images  began  to  assume  grotesque  shapes,  as 
though  reflected  in  a  distorting  mirror,  and  we  knew  that  the  wind  was 


Swamp  Grass ,  Quicksand ,  and  a  Few  Marenos  3 1 1 

rising.  With  the  memory  of  yesterday’s  norther  still  fresh  in  our  minds, 
we  hoped  to  be  spared  another  while  in  the  centre  of  the  parnpa.  A  light 
breeze  coming  from  the  north  rippled  the  water,  and  the  mirages  vanished. 
Hoisting  sail,  we  settled  down  to  the  business  of  getting  to  the  nearest 
shore,  which  now  appeared  in  the  far  distance. 

We  finally  did  reach  the  shelter  of  a  point  of  land  on  the  opposite  shore, 
but  not  before  the  oncoming  norther  had  given  us  one  of  the  most  hectic 
hours  in  our  long  career  of  sailing.  A  good  blow  on  the  ocean  was  a  tame 
experience  compared  to  the  battering  of  the  short,  high  seas  in  the  shallow 
lagoon.  Time  after  time  the  gusts  stopped  just  short  of  snapping  the  mast, 
and  ripping  the  sail  to  shreds.  And  we  were  not  yet  in  the  full  force  of  the 

gale- 

As  we  huddled  down  in  the  cockpit  behind  a  clump  of  sheltering  man¬ 
groves,  Ginger  said,  “Well,  we  have  the  Marenos  to  thank  for  saving 
our  necks  this  time.  If  we  had  left  at  five  o'clock  as  we  intended  to,  we’d 
have  been  in  the  middle  of  that  rumpus  by  now.”  We  had  reached  the 
trees  with  about  two  minutes  to  spare. 

After  an  hour's  wait,  when  the  first  mad  rush  of  the  wind  was  over,  we 
felt  that  we  could  safely  travel  close  inshore.  The  Marenos  kept  pretty 
much  to  the  lagoons  we  had  left,  and  we  looked  forward  to  a  release  from 
the  necessity  of  subordinating  everything  else  to  guarding  against  them. 
The  calmer  water  in  the  channel  was  alive  with  fish  which,  like  ourselves, 
had  come  to  it  for  protection  against  the  churning  waters  of  the  pajnpa. 
We  got  out  the  bone  jigs  and  started  trolling.  Ginger  pulled  in  one  fish 
after  another.  They  were  fine  fat  beauties  that  looked  like  bass,  and  weighed 
from  one  to  three  pounds.  With  our  dinner  flopping  round  in  the  bottom 
of  the  cockpit,  we  rounded  a  small  point  and  found  a  well-sheltered  little 
cove  where  we  stopped  to  broil  them. 

At  peace  with  the  world  after  a  meal  of  the  succulent  fish,  we  went  for 
a  stroll  along  the  beach.  On  the  sand  were  the  tracks  of  sandals  that  had 
been  cut  from  automobile  tires.  “Hurray!”  Ginger  shouted.  “Now  I  know 
we're  out  of  Mareno  country.”  The  evidence  pointed  to  a  village  some¬ 
where  near-by  where  the  natives  had  contact  with  civilization.  We  hurried 
on  to  find  it  before  dark. 

As  we  sailed  down  the  channel  looking  for  the  village  we  continued 
fishing,  for  no  villager  ever  spurns  a  fish.  Our  only  concern  was  that  we 
might  not  reach  the  village  soon  enough,  for  unless  kept  in  the  shade,  the 
fish  would  spoil  within  an  hour.  In  this  climate  death  and  dissolution  are 
almost  simultaneous. 

Then  ahead  of  us  we  saw  a  canoe.  The  poler  wore  a  shirt.  There  could 
be  no  further  question  but  that  we  were  out  of  the  Mareno  country,  for 
nothing  could  be  more  distasteful  to  a  Mareno — unless  it  were  a  traveller 
— than  the  thought  of  wearing  clothes.  The  canoe  disappeared  round  a 
point,  the  Vagabunda  hot  on  its  heels.  A  little  fishing  village,  perched  on 


312 


Enchanted  Vagabonds 

a  white  sand  beach  in  a  tiny  cove,  lay  behind  the  point.  We  zigzagged  our 
way  among  the  long  rows  of  upright  poles  on  which  the  fishermen  dried 
their  nets.  As  we  drew  near,  a  crowd  gathered  on  the  beach  and  several 
canoes  pushed  out  to  meet  us,  their  crews  shouting  a  welcome.  Surrounded 
by  the  laughing,  friendly,  excited  villagers,  we  came  on  shore. 

An  old  woman  sidled  up  to  Ginger,  and  Ginger  promptly  invited  her 
to  help  herself  to  the  fish.  She  took  three,  Ginger  two  more,  and  the  pair 
of  them  started  off  to  the  old  woman's  hut.  Thus  are  friendships  cemented 
and  matters  arranged  in  Indian  villages  in  Mexico.  I  called  for  the  head¬ 
man,  and  found  that  he  was  the  man  to  whom  I  was  talking.  To  him  was 
turned  over  the  business  of  dividing  the  fish.  While  he  passed  them  out, 
I  washed  out  the  cockpit  and  tied  the  canoe  to  a  mooring  mast.  Together  we 
walked  to  the  old  woman's  hut,  followed  by  the  crowd. 

Ginger  was  sitting  in  the  shade  of  the  thatched  shelter.  Plans  for  a 
banquet  had  been  arranged,  she  informed  us.  Local  resources  for  the  event 
were  to  be  supplemented  from  our  stores.  This  was  the  Mexico  that  we 
knew  and  loved,  simple,  friendly,  and  unostentatious.  In  these  little  vil¬ 
lages  we  were  almost  immediately  caught  up  in  a  current  of  good  feeling. 
The  natives  gave  us  whatever  they  had  that  they  thought  we  needed,  or 
wanted;  and  we  returned  the  compliment.  Sometimes  only  one  or  two 
people  in  a  village  spoke  a  Spanish  of  sorts,  but  that  was  seldom  a  bar  to 
communication.  Men’s  needs  are  similar  the  world  over.  We  smiled, 
gestured,  and  did  our  share  of  the  work.  The  entente  cordiale  was  estab¬ 
lished. 

While  the  women  prepared  the  meal,  I  squatted  in  the  shade  with  the 
men,  who  began  asking  questions.  That  we  had  come  from  Salina  Cruz 
was  accepted  as  a  matter  of  course.  They  easily  understood  how  we  had 
managed  to  travel  through  the  dry  stretches;  how  we  had  ducked  the 
northers.  But  our  escape  from  the  Marenos  was  another  matter.  That  was 
incomprehensible. 

“Those  Indios ,”  they  said,  “are  very  bad.  We  suffer  much  from  them. 
Often  they  rob  us.  Many  of  our  people  have  met  death  at  their  hands.  They 
sometimes  come  to  our  village  and  leave  a  woman  who  is  with  child.  We 
are  forced  to  take  care  of  her,  until  she  and  her  child  are  able  to  travel.” 

The  men  said  the  Marenos  left  their  women  at  night  while  the  village 
lay  asleep.  Failure  on  the  villagers'  part  to  take  her  in  would  be  followed, 
of  course,  by  swift  retaliation.  A  baby  had  died  in  a  village  where  a  woman 
had  been  left.  The  Marenos  killed  the  entire  family  who  had  taken  care 
of  its  mother.  Families  in  outlying  districts  were  frequently  forced  to  sup¬ 
port  Marenos,  who  quartered  themselves  upon  them  for  months  at  a  time. 
The  government  occasionally  sent  in  troops  to  punish  the  wild  Indios ,  but 
it  did  little  good,  for  the  soldiers  were  helpless  in  the  lagoon  country. 

The  name  of  this  village  was  Punta  Flores,  they  said.  Further  on,  con¬ 
nected  with  it  by  a  trail,  was  another  village  called  Paredon.  These  were 


Swamp  Grass ,  Quicksand,  and  a  Few  Marenos  31 3 

the  only  two  villages  on  the  great  pampa.  A  cart  road  connected  Pareddn 
and  the  inland  city  of  Tonala,  where  both  villages  traded  their  fish  for 
other  goods.  Here  again  we  found  both  our  Mexican  map  and  the  United 
States  hydrographic  chart  to  be  in  error.  The  village  of  Paredon  was  shown 
to  be  some  distance  inland — not  on  the  lagoon  at  all.  Also  Great  Pampa, 
which  we  had  just  traversed,  was  mapped  as  a  long,  narrow  body  of  water, 
instead  of  a  great  inland  sea  with  a  maze  of  lagoons  leading  far  inland. 

Since  their  livelihood  depended  upon  fishing,  the  villagers  were  keenly 
interested  in  finding  out  how  we  caught  so  many  fish.  I  let  them  examine 
our  fishing  outfit,  and  instructed  them  in  the  method  of  making  and  using 
bone  jigs.  Everywhere  the  people  were  interested  in  knowing  how  to  im¬ 
prove  their  simple  techniques  in  securing  food. 

The  next  morning  we  sailed  away  from  the  hospitable  little  cove  and 
reached  Paredon  at  noon.  Sight  of  the  village  from  the  lagoon  was  obscured 
by  the  long  lines  of  drying  nets  strung  along  poles  set  in  the  water.  The 
nets  are  strung  up  by  the  returning  fishermen  before  they  beach  their 
canoes,  which  simplifies  handling.  As  we  worked  our  way  through  the  nets, 
we  heard  sounds  of  a  great  to-do  on  shore.  Natives  ran  up  and  down  on  the 
beach;  and  several  canoes,  loaded  with  women  and  children  dressed  in 
their  Sunday  best,  shoved  off  to  meet  us. 

“What's  going  on  here,  amigos?”  I  asked,  when  the  leading  canoe  drew 
near.  “Are  you  having  a  fiesta?" 

“No,  Senor,  it  is  because  you  are  arriving.  We  have  been  waiting  for 
you  a  long  time." 

“How  did  you  know  that  we  were  coming?" 

“One  of  our  people  heard  of  you  in  Tonala.  He  has  a  friend  there,  who  is 
the  son  of  Don  Juan  and  Dona  Facunda  of  La  Ventosa." 

We  were  certainly  due  for  a  warm  welcome  if  Dona  Facunda  had  press- 
agented  our  coming.  As  we  approached  the  beach  it  became  increasingly 
evident  that  she  had  done  a  good  job  of  it.  A  marimba  started  playing  in 
the  little  market  place;  and  the  crowd  almost  carried  us,  canoe  and  all, 
out  oP the  water.  The  Presidente ,  decked  in  his  best,  and  surrounded  by 
villagers,  equally  resplendent,  read  us  an  impressive  speech  of  welcome. 
(He  may  not  have  read  it,  but  he  held  a  piece  of  paper  in  his  hand.)  Still  in 
our  old,  dirty  blue  jeans,  we  felt  a  little  self-conscious  in  the  midst  of  all 
this  elegance. 

We  thanked  them  for  their  fine  reception.  And  settled  the  matter  of 
whose  guests  we  were  going  to  be  by  a  compromise;  we  would  all  dine 
together  in  the  mercado.  Here  the  women  brought  broiled  fish,  stacks  of 
tortillas,  and  an  arrav  of  ollas  filled  with  beans,  fried  rice,  and  fish  mole. 
We  ate  and  talked  to  the  tune  of  a  marimba  played  by  five  young  men. 

After  the  banquet  was  over  everyone  was  either  sleepy  or  stupid  from 
the  copious  draughts  of  native  brew  that  had  been  passed  round,  and  we  pre¬ 
pared  to  leave.  A  shout  of  protest  went  up  at  this,  but  we  were  anxious 


314  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

to  be  on  our  way.  Inquiries  as  to  the  best  route  to  the  nearest  lagoon  as 
usual,  received  a  dozen  contradictory  answers.  Finally,  two  of  the  men 
said  that  they  knew  the  passage,  and  were  going  there  that  night  to  hunt 
alligators.  They  invited  us  to  go  with  them. 

We  gratefully  accepted  their  offer;  asked  the  Presidente  to  sign  our 
papers;  said  good-bye  all  the  way  round;  and  took  our  leave.  It  was  like 
trying  to  break  away  from  a  party  that  has  just  started.  Then  followed  the 
business  of  tactfully  refusing  the  enormous  amounts  of  food  that  they 
pressed  upon  us.  But  at  last  we  left  the  village,  with  its  hospitable  and 
friendly  people,  to  follow  our  guides  across  the  pampa. 

The  boats  in  this  district  are  called  pangas.  Like  other  native  boats  they 
are  dugout  canoes,  but  are  propelled  only  by  poles.  The  panga  has  a  flat 
platform  protruding  over  the  stern  on  which  the  men  stand  to  cast  their 
nets,  and  while  poling.  The  waters  of  the  lagoon  are  so  shallow  that  paddles 
would  be  useless — in  fact  the  natives  did  not  know  what  a  paddle  was,  or 
how  they  were  used. 

At  first  the  wind  was  too  strong  for  us  to  leave  the  protection  of  the 
lee  shore.  Later,  when  it  quieted  a  bit,  we  hoisted  sail  and  ran  before  it, 
after  tossing  a  tow  rope  to  our  friends  in  the  panga.  This  was  a  new  expe¬ 
rience  for  them,  and  they  were  exorbitantly  pleased.  These  Indians,  like 
pre-Columbian  natives,  knew  nothing  of  the  sail.  This  was  the  first  time 
they  had  ever  ridden  in  a  boat  not  propelled  by  man  power!  As  we  raced 
along  across  the  pampa ,  they  shouted  compliments  on  the  speed  of  the 
canoe,  and  enjoyed  themselves  thoroughly.  But  when  we  reached  water 
too  shallow  for  sailing,  our  roles  were  reversed.  They  shot  ahead,  while 
we  panted  after  them.  We  tried  using  our  paddles  as  they  used  their  poles, 
but  in  spite  of  our  best  efforts,  the  heavier  dugout  kept  the  lead.  Finally 
they  took  pity  on  us.  Since  they  had  two  poles,  and  we  still  had  a  long 
way  to  go,  one  of  the  men  offered  to  change  places  with  me.  I  climbed  in 
the  panga>  while  he  took  his  place  on  the  Vagabunda*  s  stern.  Then  we  did 
make  time. 

This  was  the  first  opportunity  I  had  ever  had  to  see  our  canoe  in  action. 
There  was  a  real  thrill  in  watching  the  graceful,  speedy  little  boat  cleave 
through  the  water.  Soon  Ginger  and  her  gondolier  shot  round  us,  both  of 
them  smiling  broadly  at  our  slow  progress  in  the  heavier  dugout.  While 
the  Vagabunda  skimmed  along,  the  fellow  on  her  stern  kept  shouting, 
" Muy  facily  muy  facil.”  It  was — for  an  expert. 

But  the  lagoon  soon  grew  too  shallow  to  float  even  the  Vagabunda ,  and 
we  dragged  the  boats  over  a  wide  stretch  of  inch-deep  water  before  we 
came  to  an  almost  concealed  opening  in  the  dense  vegetation  that  walled 
the  shore  line.  I  went  back  to  our  canoe,  and  followed  the  natives  along  the 
deep,  crooked,  winding  channel  that  tunnelled  through  the  overhanging 
mangroves.  We  had  reason  to  congratulate  ourselves  on  our  guides,  for 


Swamp  Grass ,  Quicksand ,  and  a  Few  Marenos  31 5 

without  them  we  would  never  have  found  the  passage;  or,  if  we  had  found 
it,  suspected  that  it  led  to  any  place  in  particular. 

As  we  followed  the  natives  in  the  gathering  dusk,  strange  noises  came 
from  the  great  swamps  on  either  side  of  the  channel — the  beating  of  wings, 
the  hoarse  croaking  of  birds  seeking  their  roosts;  the  splashing  of  alligators 
wakening  from  their  day-long  torpor  to  begin  their  nightly  quest  for 
food.  Creatures  of  the  day  hurried  by,  seeking  safety  and  security  for  the 
long,  dark  hours.  Creatures  of  the  night  emerged  from  their  sunless, 
underwater  caverns.  Owls  and  bats  began  to  reconnoitre.  Crickets  rasped 
and  sang  in  unison  against  the  contrapuntal  booming  of  the  deep-voiced 
frogs.  Fireflies  flashed  their  tiny  beams  so  brightly  that  it  looked  like  star- 
shine  on  the  water.  Somewhere  on  the  higher  terrain  a  jaguar  screamed. 
Night  closed  down;  that  swift  dramatic  black-out  that  terminates  the  brief 
twilight  hour  of  the  tropic  day. 

We  paddled  along  in  the  soft  inky  darkness  for  an  hour,  our  only  guide 
the  murmuring  voices  of  the  moving  shadows  ahead.  Then  the  natives 
ceased  poling.  Apparently  we  had  reached  the  end  of  our  journey.  A  dozen 
dugouts  were  drawn  up  on  the  bank  near-by.  “We  have  arrived,”  our 
guides  announced.  When  I  asked  where,  they  said,  “At  the  end  of  the  water, 
of  course.” 

They  knew  nothing  about  a  further  passage  to  the  south,  beyond  the 
fact,  “It  is  a  long  ways  from  here.”  I  did  find  out  that  the  owners  of  the 
pangas  drawn  up  on  the  bank  lived  in  a  little  village  “up  the  trail.”  No, 
they  were  not  going  to  the  village,  they  said.  They  had  come  to  hunt 
alligators.  Would  we  like  to  go  hunting  with  them?  Later,  we  promised, 
we  would  return  and  hunt,  but  first  we  must  go  to  the  village.  “Bueno," 
they  said.  “We  will  be  along  the  estero  not  far  from  here.” 

We  started  up  the  pitch-dark  trail,  feeling  our  way  along  the  jungle 
walls,  laughing  and  stumbling  along  in  the  darkness;  and  wondering  what 
kind  of  a  reception  awaited  us.  A  host  of  dogs  began  barking,  then  we  saw 
the  flickering  lights  of  the  cooking  fires.  Some  one  shouted,  “Buenos 
noches .”  We  shouted  back  a  hearty  response. 

As  we  entered  the  small  clearing  where  a  dozen  huts  nestled  under 
great  trees,  a  husky  boy  ran  to  meet  us.  He  took  us  at  once  to  the  headman, 
who  graciously  welcomed  us,  and  invited  us  to  enter  his  house.  This  was 
the  usual  native  establishment.  A  thatched  roof  set  on  poles,  with  latticed 
sides,  was  the  living  room.  It  was  furnished  with  several  tables,  low  benches, 
and  hammocks.  A  smaller  room,  roofed  and  sided,  the  family's  sleeping 
quarters,  adjoined  it.  The  kitchen  was  a  thatched  roof  without  sides. 

After  the  introductions  were  over,  I  asked  about  a  passage  to  the  next 
lagoon.  It  was  ten  miles  away,  and  the  portage  would  have  to  be  made  by 
oxcart,  our  host  informed  me.  He  also  politely  mentioned  the  fee — six 
pesos — for  the  trip. 

We  were  more  than  anxious  to  get  in  on  the  alligator  hunt,  so  after 


316  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

dinner  we  excused  ourselves,  promising  to  return  the  next  day,  and  re¬ 
turned  down  the  trail  to  the  canoe.  Our  search  for  the  hunters  was  short. 
One  fellow  had  fastened  a  carbide  light  to  his  hat,  and  stood  in  the  bow  of 
the  pang  a,  with  his  harpoon  in  his  hand,  searching  the  banks  with  the  beam 
of  light.  The  line  fastened  to  the  harpoon  head  was  very  heavy. 

Ginger  paddled,  while  I  made  our  harpoon  ready.  Not  to  be  outdone, 
I  fastened  the  anchor  line  to  its  head,  since  one  apparently  had  to  have 
heavy  tackle  to  catch  alligators.  Quietly  we  manoeuvred  the  canoe  close 
behind  the  hunters,  trying  to  be  as  silent  as  they  were. 

We  all  sat  motionless  until  the  carbide's  beam  steadied  on  two  points 
of  light  down  the  estero.  Then  slowly,  noiselessly,  we  glided  ahead.  The 
panga  moved  inches  at  a  time;  and  it  seemed  hours  before  we  were  close 
enough  to  see  the  alligator's  great  head.  It  was  back  in  among  the  man¬ 
grove  roots,  and  still  too  far  away  to  harpoon.  Carefully,  inch  by  inch,  we 
crept  under  the  overhanging  branches,  working  our  way  round  the  roots, 
until  we  were  within  easy  range. 

Then  for  some  unknown  reason  the  natives  stopped  and  waited.  At  first 
we  were  puzzled  by  the  delay.  Then  we  could  see  that  the  animal  was  facing 
us.  The  head  and  back  of  an  alligator  is  armoured  with  a  thick,  tough  hide 
which  it  is  almost  impossible  to  penetrate  with  a  harpoon.  The  natives 
were  waiting  for  it  to  turn  sideways,  so  that  they  could  strike  at  the  softer 
flesh  just  back  of  the  foreleg. 

There  was  a  movement  of  the  dark  body  among  the  mangroves.  The 
light  flickered  as  the  man  on  the  bow  hurled  his  harpoon.  Sounds  of  a 
tremendous  commotion,  that  drowned  out  all  the  other  night  noises,  came 
from  the  roots.  The  light  went  out,  and  then  a  match  flared.  The  men  in 
the  dugout  had  changed  places,  and  the  man  with  the  carbide  was  trying 
to  relight  it.  The  panga  rocked  violently.  The  match  went  out.  He  cursed 
and  lit  another. 

We  backed  away  to  give  them  room  to  fight.  Something  slapped  our 
canoe  so  hard  that  it  nearly  threw  us  out.  The  light  flared.  The  alligator 
was  now  between  the  two  boats.  It  repeatedly  dived  and  came  to  the  sur¬ 
face.  Each  time  it  emerged  it  thrashed  the  water  with  its  huge  tail  until  we 
were  wet  with  spray.  Ginger  and  I  grabbed  our  guns  and  blazed  away  at 
its  head.  Then  the  roar  of  a  muzzle-loader  drowned  out  the  bark  of  our 
pistols.  How  we  failed  to  shoot  each  other  was  a  miracle!  The  alligator's 
struggles  grew  weaker,  and  the  native  hauled  in  on  the  harpoon  line.  This 
time  we  delivered  a  volley  into  its  head  that  ended  the  rumpus.  It  took  the 
combined  efforts  of  all  four  of  us  to  drag  the  big  beast  into  the  panga.  It 
measured  fourteen  feet  long. 

The  natives  said  they  received  one  peso  per  foot  for  alligator  hides. 
With  the  proceeds  of  their  night’s  work  they  could  now  go  on  a  glorious 
two  weeks’  vacation.  True,  they  had  just  come  from  a  vacation,  they  ad¬ 
mitted;  but  they  were  again  men  of  property,  worth  all  of  seven  pesos 


317 


Swamp  Grass ,  Quicksand ,  a  Marenos 

each.  Such  men  did  not  work.  They  attended  fiestas,  cockfights;  drank 
tequila\  perhaps  visited  with  other  men  so  fortunately  situated;  or  just  sat 
in  the  sun — and  rested.  Surely  Fortune  did  not  smile  upon  a  man  for  the 
purpose  of  keeping  his  nose  to  the  grindstone.  They  had  heard,  they  said, 
of  men  who  continued  to  slave  after  having  accumulated  a  tidy  sum — say 
ten  pesos — but  for  themselves  it  seemed  so  useless,  so  avaricious.  Two 
weeks  was  long  enough  to  plan  ahead.  Quien  sabe ,  who  knows  what  to¬ 
morrow  will  bring?  They  fairly  tore  through  the  water,  so  anxious  were 
they  to  return  to  Pareddn  and  the  sophisticated  life  open  to  a  man  with 
seven  pesos. 

We  paddled  back  to  the  head  of  the  channel,  anchored  the  canoe  in  mid¬ 
stream,  and  settled  down  for  the  night.  Several  million  assorted  gnats, 
mosquitoes,  mosco  cabezones,  and  jenjenes  tried  to  settle  with  us.  A  veritable 
London  pea-soup  fog  of  insects — we  hardly  dared  open  our  mouths  to 
speak. 

Long  before  daylight  there  were  sounds  of  great  activity  round  us.  All 
the  canoes  were  out  in  the  water,  their  crews  shrimping.  The  natives  catch 
the  shrimps  by  poling  slowly  along  while  a  man  on  the  bow  throws  his 
circular  net.  This  net  is  about  twelve  feet  in  diameter,  and  is  weighted  with 
stones  round  the  circumference.  It  is  draped  over  the  arm  and  thrown  in 
such  a  way  that  when  it  strikes  the  water  it  spreads  out  in  a  perfect  circle. 
The  weights  quickly  carry  it  to  the  bottom,  where  it  imprisons  the  shrimps. 
Then  the  fisherman  closes  the  net  and  hauls  it  in  by  pulling  with  a  jerking 
motion  on  lines  which  are  threaded  round,  the  circumference  and  attached 
to  the  centre.  They  make  these  nets  themselves,  and  it  takes  about  three 
weeks  to  complete  one.  The  canoes  travelled  abreast  of  each  other  up  and 
down  the  channel  in  groups  of  four  or  five,  so  that  when  the  men  cast  their 
nets  they  covered  the  width  of  the  water.  Most  of  the  canoes  were  propelled 
by  youngsters,  some  of  them  not  more  than  six  years  old. 

At  daylight  we  walked  up  to  the  village.  The  headman  ran  to  meet  us  as 
we  entered  the  clearing,  and  with  “ mucho  gusto”  ushered  us  into  his  house. 
His  wife  was  busily  preparing  breakfast,  “for  you,"  she  announced.  Sev¬ 
eral  old  men  gathered  round.  Pancho,  the  headman,  all  smiles,  inquired 
how  soon  we  wanted  to  start  on  the  portage.  I  reminded  him  that  we  had 
not  yet  settled  on  the  price.  He  waved  away  the  thought  of  payment.  “Oh, 
no,”  he  said,  “there  will  be  no  charge.  I  did  not  know  last  night  that  you 
were  the  Vagabundos.  We  are  anxious  to  help  you  in  any  way  we  can.” 

We  never  knew  the  exact  details  of  how  this  grapevine  telegraph  worked, 
but  that  the  natives  had  some  means  of  communicating  with  each  other  was 
frequently  demonstrated. 

Three  o'clock  was  set  as  the  time  for  our  departure,  for  then  the  sun 
would  be  well  past  the  meridian.  The  natives  dislike  travelling  during  the 
heat  of  the  day. 

This  business  settled,  the  old  men  plied  us  with  questions  about  the 


318  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

lagoon  country  until  the  meal  was  ready.  We  sat  down  to  a  good  breakfast 
of  eggs  cooked  in  chili  sauce,  shrimps,  and  gorditas.  The  gordita  is  a  small, 
thick  corn  cake  made  from  meal  prepared  as  for  tortillas,  but  about  three 
inches  in  diameter  and  three-quarters  of  an  inch  thick.  Nowhere  else,  ex¬ 
cept  in  part  of  the  lagoon  country,  did  we  see  them. 

This  little  village,  we  learned,  was  La  Colonia.  One  legua  away,  on  the 
Gulf  of  Tehuantepec,  was  another  village,  Puerta  Arista.  While  in  Salina 
Cruz  we  had  met  a  customs  official  who  was  to  have  charge  of  Puerta 
Arista,  and  who  expected  to  have  assumed  his  post  by  the  time  we  arrived. 
We  had  promised  to  stop  and  see  him,  for  our  plans  at  that  time  were  to 
sail  down  the  coast.  Since  we  had  some  hours  to  spend  before  three  o'clock, 
we  decided  to  pay  him  a  visit. 

Dressed  in  our  white  shore  clothes,  we  started  on  the  four-mile  walk  to 
the  port.  Puerta  Arista  consisted  of  a  lighthouse  and  several  thatched  huts 
clustered  together  on  a  straight  beach,  where  a  very  heavy  surf  broke.  Why 
the  place  was  ever  called  a  port  is  one  of  the  mysteries  of  Mexico.  No  boat 
could  possibly  land  through  the  surf — even  if  the  norther  gave  it  a  chance. 
There  was  no  one  in  sight,  so  we  went  to  the  lighthouse  and  routed  out 
the  keeper,  who  was  asleep  in  a  hammock.  He  made  us  welcome  and  prom¬ 
ised  to  go  in  search  of  our  friend.  He  soon  returned  with  Don  Nancho  in 
tow,  who  immediately  welcomed  us  to  Puerta  Arista  and  invited  us  to  his 
house. 

The  worthy  Don  said  that  he  had  long  ago  given  us  up,  believing  we 
had  been  lost  at  sea.  When  I  informed  him  that  we  had  come  through  the 
lagoons,  he  was  highly  incredulous,  and  questioned  us  closely  about  the 
country.  " Caramba!”  he  exclaimed.  ‘'You  actually  came  through  the  Ma- 
reho  country?"  He  shook  his  head,  and  added  the  Spanish  equivalent  of 
"It  just  isn't  done."  "Why,"  said  he,  "when  I  was  younger,  I  led  an  army 
through  that  country.  I  know  it,  and  I  know  the  Marenos.  They  will  kill 
you  for  nothing.  I  do  not  understand  how  you  could  do  it."  Except  for  our 
knowledge  of  its  geography,  we  should  never  have  convinced  him. 

Don  Nancho  was  sixty-five,  and  very  young  and  active  for  his  age.  This 
— along  with  his  successful  marriage  to  a  woman  forty  years  his  junior — 
he  attributed  to  his  lifelong  habit  of  drinking  curdled  milk.  This  milk  was 
prepared  from  a  culture  "of  worms,"  which  he  said  he  had  used  for  twenty- 
five  years.  I  have  no  idea  what  Don  Nancho's  "worms"  really  were,  but 
he  swore  by  them.  They  were  put  in  fresh  milk  and  allowed  to  stand  over 
night.  The  following  day  the  milk  was  strained  and  drunk.  The  "worms," 
said  he,  would  cure  anything  .  .  .  restore  the  vigour  of  youth  ...  he 
offered  to  lend  me  some  of  his  culture  ...  I  would  soon  see  for  myself 
whether  they  were  overrated  or  not  ...  I  hastily  declined  his  kind  offer. 
Then,  Dona  Felicia,  his  fat  young  wife,  brought  in  his  mid-morning  tipple. 
He  drank  it  down  with  great  gusto,  and  a  mighty  smacking  of  his  lips. 


319 


Swamp  Grass ,  Quicksand ,  and  a  Few  Marenos 

Dona  Felicia  smiled  broadly.  Yes,  she  said,  it  was  a  remarkable  antidote 
for  the  ravages  of  time. 

After  an  excellent  lunch  of  chicken  mole,  quite  the  best  we  had  ever 
eaten,  we  started  hack  up  the  dusty  trail.  Half-way  we  were  met  by  a  horse¬ 
man,  who  said  he  had  been  sent  to  look  for  us,  since  Pancho  was  afraid 
that  we  might  have  lost  our  way. 

The  oxcarts  were  ready  and  waiting  in  the  village.  While  loading  the 
canoe,  one  of  the  men  called  my  attention  to  a  bullet  hole  in  the  stern. 
I  called  Ginger,  pointing  to  the  place  just  below  the  gunwale.  “Oh,”  she 
gasped.  “I  was  standing  by  the  stern  when  they  fired.” 

We  said  Adios ,  and  started  down  the  road.  As  we  passed  each  house  the 
family  came  running  out  and  handed  us  gifts  of  food.  They  gave  us  yuca , 
bananas,  plantains,  coco-nuts,  and  breadstuff's.  The  cockpit  was  half  full  by 
the  time  we  left  the  village.  A  hundred  yards  past  the  last  house,  we  heard 
a  child  screaming.  We  turned  round  to  see  a  little  girl  running  towards  us, 
waving  her  arms  and  yelling.  The  carts  went  on  ahead  while  we  waited  for 
her.  Ginger  picked  her  up,  and  with  the  tears  streaming  down  her  dusty 
face  she  sobbed,  “I  was  so  afraid  you  would  go  away  before  I  could  give 
you  this.”  Clenched  in  one  dirty  little  fist,  was  an  egg! 

The  third  portage  passed  without  incident.  Again  we  made  our  way 
along  the  intricate  waterways  that  meandered  in  and  out  of  mangrove 
thickets,  swamps,  and  shallow  lagoons.  At  a  little  village  called  Cabezo  del 
Toro,  friendly  Indians  guided  us  through  a  difficult  maze  to  the  next  open 
water.  This  country  was  mapped  on  the  charts  as  dry  land.  And  after  push¬ 
ing  the  canoe  for  a  distance  of  ten  miles  through  barely  wet  mud,  we  were 
not  disposed  to  quarrel  with  the  map  makers. 

The  second  day  out  from  La  Colonia,  we  were  cruising  down  a  shallow 
estero ,  wondering  when  we  would  find  enough  water  to  bathe  and  to  wash 
our  muddy  clothes  in.  This  was  the  dry  season,  and  all  the  tributary  streams 
were  dry,  too.  We  were  caked  with  mud  from  head  to  toe.  On  the  estero 
we  met  two  fishermen,  who  told  us  that  at  the  base  of  the  next  hill  ahead 
we  would  find  a  village. 

We  paddled  on,  hoping  to  find  a  place  where  we  could  clean  up  a  bit 
before  going  on  to  the  village.  But  within  a  short  distance  a  canoe  came  to 
meet  us,  filled  with  men  and  women  in  their  fiesta  clothes.  They  were  very 
cordial  and  insistent  that  we  come  at  once  to  the  village.  Ginger  protested 
that  we  were  too  dirty,  and  urged  them  to  go  on  ahead.  We  would  follow 
when  we  had  made  ourselves  presentable. 

“No,  no,”  laughed  a  young  fellow  who  had  invited  us  to  be  his  guests. 
“It  is  perfectly  natural  that  you  should  be  dirty  after  such  a  trip.  You  must 
come  to  our  house.  There  you  can  bathe  with  fresh  water  and  soap.” 

We  beamed  at  each  other.  “Fresh  water  and  soap.”  This  would  be  the 
first  luxury  of  the  sort  we  had  had  since  leaving  Salina  Cruz. 

As  we  made  our  way  up  the  estero  we  could  see  that  this  was  not  the 


320  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

poor,  sandy  country  we  had  left.  The  sloping  hills  were  covered  with  rich, 
cultivated  fields  of  corn  and  cane,  and  groves  of  coco-nut  palms,  oranges, 
and  bananas.  Santa  Rosa  was  also  the  largest  settlement  we  had  visited 
since  leaving  Salina  Cruz.  But  unlike  the  usual  Mexican  village,  it  was  not 
built  round  a  central  square  or  plaza;  its  two  hundred  thatched  huts  were 
strung  along  a  single  street. 

We  followed  our  host,  Roberto,  to  a  coco-nut  grove,  where  he  filled  a 
large  wooden  trough  with  water  from  a  near-by  well.  This  was  his  bath¬ 
room.  He  presented  us  with  some  hard  native  soap  and  retired,  leaving  us 
to  the  privacy  of  our  bath.  The  native  soap  was  black,  hard,  and  full  of  grit, 
but  it  made  a  good  lather.  After  thoroughly  removing  the  successive  layers 
of  mud,  we  dressed  ourselves  in  our  white  shore  clothes,  stuffed  our  dirty 
native  costumes  into  the  clothes  bag,  and  started  back  towards  the  hut. 

When  we  again  presented  ourselves  to  the  natives,  we  noticed  a  de¬ 
cided  change  in  their  manner.  Where  before  they  had  chatted  away  with 
easy  informality,  now  they  became  reserved  and  excessively  polite.  They 
no  longer  addressed  us  in  the  familiar  language,  but  used  the  formal  pro¬ 
nouns  reserved  for  strangers.  They  offered  us  food  and  drink  with  the 
greatest  courtesy.  Their  house  was  ours,  they  said.  But  we  were  not  fooled. 
With  our  European  clothes  we  had  become  gringos — strangers.  We  did 
our  best  to  bridge  the  awkward,  constrained  silences.  Ginger  looked  at  me, 
as  though  to  say,  '‘Something  must  be  done  about  this.'" 

Then  she  had  an  inspiration.  “We  are  very  sorry  that  we  have  to  wear 
these  clothes  in  your  village/'  she  smiled.  “We  only  wear  them  in  the 
ports  and  large  cities,  for  they  are  not  comfortable,  and  we  prefer  our  na¬ 
tive  clothes.  But  now  those  are  dirty,  and  we  have  only  these." 

I  followed  through  with  the  story  of  our  sorry  appearance  in  Salina 
Cruz,  and  how  everyone  laughed  at  my  white  pants  with  blue  flowers.  This 
helped  a  bit,  but  it  took  more  than  a  good  story  to  make  them  forget  that 
we  were  gringos. 

While  we  were  talking  a  crowd  of  natives  gathered  outside  Roberto's 
hut,  where  they  kept  their  distance,  and  just  stared.  Ginger  stood  it  as  long 
as  she  could.  Finally  she  said,  “Come  on,  let's  put  on  our  native  clothes; 
dirty  or  not,  it  will  be  better  than  this." 

Excusing  ourselves,  we  beat  a  retreat  to  the  coco-nut  grove,  where  we 
pounded  as  much  of  the  dirt  off  our  mud-encrusted  blue  jeans  as  we  could 
before  putting  them  on.  Ginger  began  carefully  packing  away  our  good 
clothes.  “This  will  be  the  last  time,"  she  said  grimly,  “we'll  wear  these 
clothes  in  Mexico."  I  laughed.  She  was  fairly  safe  in  her  pronouncement, 
since  our  next  port  of  call  of  any  size  would  be  Champerico,  Guatemala. 

Although  our  hosts  were  appreciative  of  our  efforts  to  please  them  by 
wearing  native  clothes,  they  were  still  quite  conscious  that  they  were  enter¬ 
taining  gringos.  It  was  not  until  we  were  out  in  the  street  on  our  way  to 


321 


Swamp  Grass ,  Quicksand ,  and  a  Few  Marenos 

:he  Presidencia,  where  we  laughed  and  talked  with  natives  who  had  not 
seen  us  dressed  in  our  finery,  that  we  became  at  ease  again. 

The  Presidents s  official  signature  affixed  to  our  documents,  we  strolled 
back  up  the  long  street  towards  Roberto's  house,  where  we  had  promised 
to  return  for  dinner.  On  the  way  we  stopped  in  at  a  Chinese  store — the  only 
store  in  the  village — to  do  a  little  trading.  Its  proprietor  said  business  was 
bad,  because  people  in  this  town  seldom  bought  manufactured  articles. 
Everything  was  much  cheaper  than  in  Matias  Romero  and  Salina  Cruz, 
where  we  had  purchased  our  last  supplies.  Panela,  native  sugar,  was  one 
cent  a  pound  (American  money)  as  against  three  cents  a  pound  on  the 
Isthmus.  After  a  little  dickering,  we  traded  eight  fishhooks  and  ten  .2 2 
shells  for  twenty  pounds  oi  panela,  a  dozen  large  onions,  a  pound  of  lard, 
and  some  cacao  beans. 

After  dinner,  we  presented  Roberto  and  his  mother  with  fishhooks  and 
needles,  thanked  them  for  their  hospitality,  and  returned  to  the  canoe.  We 
declined  invitations  to  stay  over  for  a  day  or  two,  for  we  were  anxious  to 
reach  an  uninhabited  section  of  the  lagoon,  where  we  could  celebrate  Christ¬ 
mas  in  our  own  manner. 

The  usual  quest  for  information  had  been  unproductive  in  Santa  Rosa. 
No  one  knew  anything  about  the  country  ahead  beyond  the  fact  that  past 
the  next  village,  called  Punta  Duro,  four  miles  south,  the  lagoons  were 
closed.  We  started  off  for  Punta  Duro.  The  country  between  the  two  vil¬ 
lages  was  dotted  with  coco-nut  groves  and  banana  plantations.  The  water 
was  full  of  fish  and  shrimps.  Everywhere  there  was  an  abundance  unknown 
to  such  villages  as  San  Francisco  del  Mar. 

When  we  pulled  in  at  the  little  embarcadero  of  Punta  Duro,  the  Presidente 
was  there  to  meet  us.  The  village,  smaller  than  Santa  Rosa,  was  charming. 
The  thatched  huts,  each  with  its  own  well,  were  set  among  groves  of  coco 
palms  and  spreading  shade  trees.  It  was  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  the 
villagers,  dressed  in  spotless  white  homespun  and  fresh  from  the  siesta 
hour,  strolled  along  the  little  street,  or  in  their  gardens.  Not  since  leaving 
Tehuantepec  had  we  seen  so  many  flowers.  Each  hut  was  surrounded  with 
brilliant  tropical  shrubs  and  flowering  vines.  Hibiscus,  bougainvillaea,  cresta 
de  gallo ,  and  many  others  grew  in  profusion. 

Machineless  men,  dwelling  outside  the  currents  of  time  and  change,  the 
faces  of  the  villagers  of  Punta  Duro  reflected  the  peace  and  contentment 
that  came  from  being  presented  with  no  problem  beyond  their  capacity  to 
solve.  Close  to  the  earth,  they  drew  their  sustenance  from  it  without  ques¬ 
tion.  They  needed  no  philosophers  to  prove  to  them  that  this  was  the  best 
of  all  possible  worlds.  They  knew  it.  They  smiled  and  nodded  as  we  passed, 
and  called  out  greetings  in  their  soft,  unhurried  voices. 

In  Punta  Duro  we  consulted  the  usual  authorities  about  the  country  to 
the  south.  There  were  no  roads  or  trails,  and  the  lagoons  were  closed,  they 
said.  One  old  man  vouchsafed  the  information  that  many  miles  down  the 


322  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

lagoon  there  was  a  village  called  La  Barra.  This  sounded  as  though  it  were 
located  on  some  bar,  or  sea  entrance;  and  so  I  asked  him  how  big  the 
village  was.  “Oh/'  he  said,  “it  is  no  longer  there.  Once  it  was  a  large 
pueblo ,  but  everyone  died  of  malaria." 

Well  used  to  such  contradictory  statements  by  now,  I  patiently  kept  on 
asking  questions.  A  village  called  Ocos  was  next  suggested.  This,  I  knew, 
was  two  hundred  miles  to  the  south,  on  the  border  between  Mexico  and 
Guatemala.  Nothing  of  further  interest  could  be  obtained  beyond  one  sug¬ 
gestion:  several  miles  past  this  village,  at  the  end  of  the  estero ,  lived  a  man 
who  made  his  living  hunting  alligators.  He  was  an  authority  on  the  lagoon 
country,  and  perhaps  he  might  be  able  to  help  us.  Encouraged  by  this 
prospect,  we  said  good-bye  and  started  off  in  search  of  him. 

As  we  paddled  down  the  narrow  channel  in  the  dusk,  the  children  ran 
along  the  bank  shouting  “ Adios ,  que  la  vaya  bleu.”  When  we  could  no 
longer  see  them,  their  voices  drifted  down  to  us  in  the  still  twilight,  a  long 
drawn  out,  faint  “ adio-os ."  Night  caught  us  two  miles  down  the  estero. 
Since  it  was  too  dark  to  navigate  among  the  mangrove  roots,  we  tied  the 
canoe  to  a  limb  and  turned  in. 

We  awoke  at  daylight  in  a  hazy,  misty  world  from  which  all  sense  of 
direction  had  fled.  The  lagoon  at  this  point  was  only  ten  feet  wide.  The 
night  before  I  had  tied  the  canoe  to  an  overhanging  limb  in  the  centre  of 
the  waterway,  and  now  could  not  remember  which  way  the  bow  had 
pointed.  Sunrise  would  be  no  help,  since  we  frequently  paddled  north  to 
go  south  in  these  labyrinthine  channels.  The  current  had  turned  the  canoe 
round  several  times  and  the  line  was  kinked  and  twisted.  In  an  effort  to 
determine  the  direction,  I  studied  the  current.  Small  twigs  floated  by.  As 
frequently  happens,  the  study  of  one  problem  solves  another.  “Look,"  I 
called  to  Ginger,  “see  these  twigs;  they’re  moving  too  rapidly  for  this  to 
be  a  closed  channel.  Somewhere,  not  far  off,  the  tide  is  coming  in.  It’s  not 
likely  to  be  as  far  south  as  Sacapulco  Bar." 

We  started  down  the  crooked  channel  that  wound  through  a  big  man¬ 
grove  swamp,  paddling  against  the  current.  At  ten  o’clock  we  arrived  at 
the  little  ranchito  of  the  alligator  hunter.  He  was  not  at  home,  but  his  fat 
old  wife  and  his  three  young  daughters  were.  They  were  so  astonished  at 
the  sight  of  two  gringos  in  this  isolated  country,  that  at  first  they  were 
speechless.  The  old  lady  hurried  off  to  prepare  a  warm  meal  for  us  when 
she  found  out  that  we  had  not  had  one  since  leaving  Punta  Duro.  Then  her 
husband  arrived.  He  was  a  fine-looking,  elderly  man,  who  claimed  to  know 
every  channel  in  the  vast  lagoon  country. 

Twenty-five  years  ago,  he  said,  there  was  a  passage  leading  all  the  way 
to  the  Ocos  River  in  Guatemala.  Since  then  the  mangroves  had  blocked  the 
channel.  Mud  and  silt  had  collected  round  their  roots,  and  as  soon  as  they 
cut  off  the  current,  other  trees  took  root.  Not  only  were  the  channels 
blocked  by  the  mangrove  roots,  but  during  the  wind  storms,  trees  had  also 


Swamp  Grass ,  Quicksand ,  Marenos  323 

Diown  across  them.  He  had  made  many  attempts,  he  said,  to  get  through  to 
hunt,  but  without  success.  There  were  no  roads,  for  no  one  ever  went  into 
the  country  to  the  south.  The  estero  that  we  had  paddled  down  wound  in  a 
great  circle  towards  the  ocean,  where  it  joined  many  other  channels.  Where 
they  met,  there  was  a  bar  opening  out  into  the  ocean.  This  was  our  only 
route,  for  all  the  lagoons  were  closed  a  few  miles  south  of  his  house.  There 
was  one  little  difficulty,  he  added,  in  attempting  to  reach  the  mar  viva — 
the  breakers  at  the  mouth  of  the  channel  were  too  high  to  get  through. 

We  thanked  him  and  took  our  leave,  sailing  on  down  the  little  waterway 
towards  the  coast.  Three  miles  brought  us  to  a  fairly  large  estero  running 
north  and  south.  Towards  the  west,  we  could  hear  the  boom  of  heavy  surf. 

We  stopped  and  took  counsel.  The  country  to  the  south  sounded  inter¬ 
esting.  It  might  be  impassable,  and  then  again,  it  might  be  penetrated  with 
effort.  We  had  learned  to  discount  stories  as  to  whether  country  could  be 
travelled  or  not.  So  little  was  really  known  about  these  great  areas  that 
it  seemed  worth  the  effort  to  find  out  more.  This  sea  entrance  to  the  lagoons 
that  we  had  discovered  was  unmapped.  No  entrance  from  the  ocean  was 
charted  nearer  than  Sacapulco  Bar,  sixty  miles  due  south.  There  was  al¬ 
ways  the  alternative:  if  we  couldn't  whack  our  way  through  the  cerrado 
(closed  lagoon)  we  could  return  and  try  the  bar.  Ginger  made  the  decision. 
"Let's  head  south,"  she  said.  "If  we  don't  like  it  we  can  turn  back.  There's 
six  hours  of  daylight  left.  Let's  see  how  far  we  can  get  before  dark." 

The  estero  ran  due  south  for  four  miles,  where  it  became  so  narrow  that 
we  touched  the  trees  on  both  sides  as  we  passed.  It  finally  ended  in  a  small 
pampa  from  which  there  seemed  to  be  no  outlet.  A  second  careful  skirting 
of  the  trees  revealed  a  slight  current  coming  out  from  beneath  the  trees 
opposite  the  channel.  Such  as  it  was,  this  was  the  passage. 

We  turned  the  canoe  round  and  backed  it  into  the  mangroves.  Ginger 
placed  herself  on  the  bow  so  that  she  could  propel  the  canoe  by  pulling  on 
the  mangroves,  while  I  knelt  on  the  stern  to  clear  a  passage  by  slashing 
the  growth  with  the  machete.  Within  a  few  feet  of  the  little  pampaf  we 
were  in  a  different  world. 

This  was  a  land  of  roots:  a  topsy-turvy  world  of  grotesque,  unreal 
forms;  of  perpetual  twilight.  Overhead  a  green  canopy  of  interwoven  leaves 
and  branches  reached  down  to  the  water  below.  They  crossed  and  criss¬ 
crossed  in  a  tangled  network  of  breather-roots,  suckers,  branches,  and 
fallen  trees.  The  mangrove  is  one  of  Nature’s  oddest  specializations.  Its 
overhead  roots,  exposed  at  low  tide,  enable  the  tree  to  breathe.  Its  seeds 
germinate  while  still  attached  to  the  parent  tree.  A  mangrove  swamp  looks 
like  an  inverted  forest,  whose  roots  have  changed  places  with  the  tree  tops. 
The  illusion  is  further  heightened  by  its  reflection  in  the  water.  We  looked 
round  at  this  tangled  maze  of  roots,  and  then  at  each  other.  Never  had  any¬ 
thing  looked  more  difficult  than  cutting  through  that  barrier. 

"It's  a  question,"  I  said,  "whether  we  want  to  tackle  this  thing  or  not. 


32  4 


Enchanted  Vagabonds 

If  we  don't  want  to,  then  we'd  better  go  back  to  the  bar,  make  our  Christ¬ 
mas  camp  there,  and  after  that  go  down  to  Champerico  along  the  coast.  I 
don’t  know  where  we’ll  find  a  place  to  build  a  camp  in  this  swamp.” 

Ginger  laughed.  “We  could  build  a  tree  house  somewhere,  and  play 
Swiss  Family  Robinson.” 

"Are  you  trying  to  say  that  you  want  to  go  in?”  I  asked. 

She  said  she  was  willing  to  try  it,  if  I  was.  That  settled  the  matter. 
How,  or  when,  we'd  get  out  of  the  cerrado  neither  one  of  us  knew.  I  started 
slashing  at  the  mangroves. 


Chapter  Twenty-four 


HOLIDAY  IN  THE  CERRADO 

When  two  people,  of  their  own  volition,  go  into  country  as  difficult  and 
heartbreaking  to  traverse  as  a  mangrove  cerrado  in  Southern  Mexico, 
I  suppose  they  ought  to  furnish  the  reader  with  a  good  reason  for  doing  so; 
or  else  keep  still  about  the  hardships  they  encounter.  The  truth  of  the 
matter  is,  probably,  that  there  seldom  is  a  “good  reason"  for  going  to 
hazardous  places.  Men  go  because  it  promises  adventure,  excitement,  a 
release  from  humdrum  life,  the  thrill  of  being  a  trail  breaker.  Sometimes 
men  go  with  the  accolade  of  a  scientific  mission  to  lend  verisimilitude  to 
their  claim  that  they  do  these  things  for  “science,"  but  much  of  this,  I 
suspect,  is  “protective  colouration."  Man  likes  to  think  of  himself  as  a  ra¬ 
tional  creature — and  uses  a  little  artifice  to  substantiate  his  claim.  Other¬ 
wise  he  is  apt  to  feel  foolish  in  his  own  eyes  and,  moreover,  leave  himself 
open  to  attack  by  cautious  mortals  who  never  leave  the  house  on  cloudy 
days  without  their  umbrellas,  as  being  a  man  of  indifferent  sense.  Our 
alibis  were  simple:  we  had  an  insatiable  curiosity  about  any  place  that  no 
one  else  had  been  to;  and  we  liked  proving  to  ourselves  that  we  were  equal 
to  the  handicap  presented  by  a  new  environment. 

The  cerrado  certainly  offers  a  challenge  to  any  one's  ability  to  take  a 
beating  and  like  it.  We  had  one  piece  of  good  fortune,  though,  when  we 
found  that  the  mangrove’s  aerial  roots  were  not  attached  to  the  mud — as 
we  at  first  thought.  The  possibility  of  snagging  the  canoe's  canvas  hull  as 
it  passed  over  the  stumps  had  worried  us.  But  to  my  surprise,  the  severed 
roots  sank  from  sight  when  I  slashed  through  them.  However,  we  had  to 
be  constantly  on  the  lookout  for  the  limbs  of  submerged  logs  that  might 
puncture  the  frail  canvas  in  some  unguarded  moment. 

As  we  progressed  further  into  this  wild  country,  the  birds  and  the  aquatic 
life  grew  more  abundant.  There  were  many  water  snakes,  small  alligators, 
and  strange,  snakelike  fishes— perhaps  eels.  Wading  birds  were  every¬ 
where:  pink  flamingos,  great  white  swans,  pelicans,  scarlet  ibises,  egrets, 
blue  and  white  herons,  and  many  varieties  of  brown  marsh  birds.  There 
were  five  or  more  varieties  of  iguanas. 

Since  there  was  no  dry  land  on  which  to  make  camp,  we  ate  the  cold 
victuals  and  fruit  that  had  been  given  to  us  at  Santa  Rosa,  and  slept  in  the 
canoe.  But  Christmas  was  just  a  day  away,  and  we  hated  to  give  up  our 
cherished  plan  of  finding  some  place  in  which  to  celebrate  it.  Ginger,  I 


326  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

knew,  had  planned  on  making  this  third  Christmas  away  from  home  some¬ 
thing  of  an  occasion.  We  had  spent  our  first  Christmas  on  the  poverty- 
stricken  beach  at  Turtle  Inlet  in  Magdalena  Bay.  Last  year  at  this  time 
we  were  convalescing  from  malaria  in  Puerto  Escondido.  This  year  it 
seemed  likely  that  the  day  would  be  spent  somewhere  in  a  swamp  in 
Chiapas — dining  off  an  uncooked  plantain.  It  was  not  an  hilarious  prospect. 

By  now  we  were  becoming  increasingly  grateful  for  the  few  open  spaces 
where,  tor  fifty  yards  or  more,  we  could  paddle.  Most  of  the  time  we  were 
tunnelling  through  mangrove  roots,  or  encountering  submerged  logs  which 
had  to  be  hacked  away  to  a  sufficient  depth  to  permit  our  passage.  Both  of 
us  were  a  mess,  and  the  canoe  was  no  better.  We  were  covered  with  mud, 
leaves,  spider  webs,  ants,  and  insect  bites;  the  canoe  was  full  of  bark, 
twigs,  bugs,  and  dirt.  Ginger’s  hands  were  blistered  from  pulling  on  the 
mangrove  roots  to  propel  the  canoe;  and  mine  from  gripping  the  machete 
hour  after  hour,  while  I  slashed  at  logs  and  roots  that  seemed  made  of  iron. 
Still,  there  was  just  one  way  to  find  dry  land,  and  that  was  to  go  ahead. 

In  the  afternoon  of  our  second  day  in  the  cerrado — the  day  before  Christ¬ 
mas — we  saw  what  appeared  to  be  palm  boles  on  the  ocean  side  of  the 
swamp.  Ginger  tried  vainly  to  suppress  her  excitement.  "If  those  are 
palms,  that  means  high  ground  and  a  place  to  camp." 

We  tied  the  canoe  as  near  as  possible  to  the  place  where  we  had  sighted 
the  trees,  and  began  scrambling  over  fallen  logs  and  roots.  The  growth  was 
heavier  outside  the  narrow  confines  of  the  channel.  Once  I  fell  from  a  log 
into  the  mud,  half  expecting  to  sink  out  of  sight,  but  to  my  surprise  the 
ground  beneath  the  muddy  surface  was  fairly  firm.  The  mangroves  thinned 
out,  so  that  I  could  cut  a  trail  through  the  brush.  Then  we  saw  the  feathery 
tops  of  the  palms.  The  wild  life  for  miles  must  have  been  frightened  and 
dismayed  at  our  war  whoops.  We  were  going  to  have  a  dry  camp  for 
Christmas! 

We  decided  to  go  no  further,  but  to  return  at  once  to  the  canoe  and  pick 
up  what  equipment  we  needed  for  the  night  before  it  grew  too  dark.  The 
trail  we  had  cut  from  the  mangroves  was  easy  to  follow,  but  when  we 
reached  its  end,  we  realized  that  in  our  excitement  we  had  failed  to  blaze 
a  way  over  the  roots.  This  was  a  pretty  situation,  for  neither  one  of  us  was 
certain  which  direction  we  had  taken  from  the  canoe.  Disheartened,  Ginger 
started  in  one  direction,  I  in  another,  after  we  had  agreed  to  keep  in  touch 
by  shouting  back  and  forth;  to  fire  three  shots  if  we  got  into  difficulty,  one 
shot  if  we  found  the  canoe. 

I  had  spent  Christmas  Eve  in  many  strange  ports  and  places,  but  that 
hunting  a  lost  canoe  in  an  equatorial  swamp  about  capped  the  climax.  After 
an  hour's  search,  the  staccato  crack  of  Ginger’s  twenty-two  announced  that 
the  quest  was  ended.  Both  of  us  had  passed  close  to  the  canoe  several 
times  before,  but  in  the  gathering  dusk  we  had  failed  to  see  it. 

This  time,  after  securing  the  tent,  sleeping  bag,  and  what  food  we 


32  7 


Holiday  in  the  Cerrado 

needed  for  the  night,  we  were  careful  to  blaze  a  trail  that  a  blind  man 
could  follow.  Again  we  set  out  for  the  palms. 

The  grove  was  an  ideal  camp  site  with  two  exceptions:  the  ground  was 
full  of  ants — with  mandibles  like  red-hot  pincers;  and  the  undergrowth  was 
like  a  barbed-wire  barricade.  There  wasn’t  room  to  spread  a  handkerchief, 
let  alone  set  up  a  tent.  To  make  the  place  habitable  would  be  a  tremendous 
job,  but  we  had  set  our  hearts  on  having  a  Christmas  celebration,  and  we 
were  determined  to  have  it. 

I  cleared  away  a  small  spot  in  the  centre,  and  built  a  fire  by  the  light  of 
which  we  surveyed  the  scene.  We  were  hemmed  in  by  a  welter  of  fallen 
branches,  logs,  ants,  and  undergrowth.  Nothing  could  be  thrown  out,  but 
it  could  be  burnt.  We  started  piling  the  debris  on  the  flames,  working 
from  the  centre,  so  that  the  cleared  space  formed  a  firebreak.  The  heat  of 
the  fire,  added  to  the  humidity  of  the  tropic  night,  soon  had  us  simmering; 
and  sometimes  a  sudden  flare-up  singed  us.  But  the  results  were  well 
worth  it,  for  in  an  hour's  time  we  had  burnt  a  room  forty  feet  square. 

When  the  fire  burnt  down  to  coals,  we  raked  them  over  the  entire 
camp  site  with  forked  sticks,  so  that  the  heat  would  bake  out  the  ants  and 
other  insects  inhabiting  the  soil.  After  allowing  sufficient  time  for  the  heat 
to  kill  the  bugs,  we  raked  the  coals  to  the  room’s  circumference,  and  swept 
away  with  palm-leaf  brooms  the  remaining  ashes  and  debris  right  down 
to  the  clean,  white  sand.  Then  we  surveyed  our  handiwork  with  pardonable 
pride. 

At  midnight  we  sat  down  to  the  first  warm  meal  we  had  eaten  since 
leaving  the  alligator  hunter's  ranchito.  Tonight  we  would  sleep  in  the  tent, 
the  first  night’s  sleep,  outside  the  crowded  confines  of  the  canoe,  since 
leaving  the  Mareno  country.  Out  of  such  things  as  these  do  wayfarers  in 
the  wilderness  find  cause  for  rejoicing. 

We  both  slept  like  logs  and  waked  up  full  of  spirit.  “Just  think!  No 
trail  to  start  on.  No  natives — not  even  nice  ones.  Plenty  of  food.  A  place 
we  can  spend  a  week  in  if  we  want  to.  And  it's  Christmas! ’’ 

Out  in  the  sunlight,  we  were  surprised  at  the  beauty  of  our  camp  site, 
for  the  palm  enclosure  was  one  of  the  prettiest  places  we  had  ever  made 
camp  in.  Our  good  luck  in  finding  it  amazed  us. 

After  breakfast,  when  the  rest  of  the  equipment  had  been  brought  from 
the  canoe,  came  the  real  business  of  the  day — Christmas  dinner.  Ginger 
needed,  she  said,  just  three  things:  plenty  of  wood,  fresh  meat,  and  water. 

“All  right,’’  I  promised,  “you  start  the  dinner  and  I'll  take  care  of  the 
rest.’’  The  jungle  was  full  of  wood.  I  could  either  dig  a  shallow  well,  or 
start  the  still  with  salt  water  from  the  ocean.  And  the  country  looked  like 
game.  1  collected  the  wood,  and  then  began  cutting  a  trail  towards  the 
ocean.  In  a  few  minutes  I  came  back  empty-handed. 

Ginger  looked  up  from  her  work  in  surprise.  “What  brings  you  back? 
Isn’t  there  any  game  in  this  country?” 


328  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

Enjoying  my  private  joke,  I  said,  “I  just  thought  I’d  come  back  and  find 
out  what  you  wanted  for  Christmas  dinner/' 

"Anything  you  can  get  will  be  fine,"  she  answered  amiably. 

"You  name  it,"  I  said.  "There's  chicken,  turkey,  wild  pigeon,  doves, 
coon,  deer,  and  iguana." 

"Well,  considering  the  occasion,  suppose  you  bring  in  a  turkey." 

To  any  one  who  has  never  seen  wild  life  in  countries  uninhabited  by 
men,  its  prodigality  is  amazing.  I  wondered  how  many  animals  there  were 
for  the  many  that  I  saw.  At  each  stroke  of  the  machete  they  fled  before  me, 
and  I  could  hear  more  of  them  than  I  could  see;  the  whir  of  wings  and  the 
snapping  of  twigs  sounded  as  they  scuttled  to  cover.  Within  a  few  feet  of 
camp  I  saw  my  turkey  sitting  in  a  tree  top,  and  shot  it,  but  it  remained  fast 
in  the  branches.  Ginger  came  running  out.  "What's  the  matter?  You’re 
shooting  so  close  to  camp." 

"How  are  we  going  to  get  it  down?"  I  asked.  The  obvious  answer, 
"Shake  the  tree,"  isn't  such  a  good  one  in  the  tropics,  where  each  tree  is 
laced  to  a  dozen  others  by  stout  aerial  cables  of  tough  vines.  We  slashed 
at  such  lianas  as  were  within  reach,  and  pushed  against  the  trunk,  but  the 
bird  remained  fast  in  its  perch.  Then  Ginger  gave  a  vicious  yank  to  a  vine 
attached  to  the  tree  top,  and  down  came  our  big  fat  Christmas  turkey. 

When  I  came  back  to  camp  with  the  dressed  bird,  ready  for  roasting, 
Ginger  made  a  hurried  movement  towards  the  grub  box.  "Go  away,"  she 
commanded.  "You're  not  supposed  to  see  this  yet." 

So  while  she  worked  on  the  dinner,  I  dug  a  well,  using  our  bailing  can 
for  a  shovel.  About  five  feet  down  I  struck  water,  sweet  and  cold.  Ginger 
took  time  out  to  celebrate  the  event.  For  months  we  had  used  fresh  water 
with  the  greatest  economy.  Now,  waxing  extravagant,  we  had  a  water 
fight  and  poured  the  precious  liquid  over  each  other,  grateful  for  its  cool¬ 
ness  against  our  wind-roughened,  sun-scorched  skins.  The  day  was  perfect. 

There  was  just  one  thing  more  that  I  wanted — a  Christmas  tree — and  I 
started  off  towards  the  ocean  in  search  of  one.  En  route  I  discovered  some 
coco-nut  palms,  and  cut  down  a  small  one,  collecting  the  nuts,  both  green 
and  ripe,  and  the  heart  or  terminal  bud.  We  would  have  milk  and  salad  as 
well  as  turkey  for  our  feast.  But  nowhere  could  I  find  a  little  tree  that  in 
any  way  resembled  the  pointed  firs  of  home. 

As  I  cut  my  way  through  a  thorny  maguey  thicket  towards  the  beach, 
I  could  hear  the  roar  of  the  surf,  but  not  even  its  thunder  prepared  me  for 
the  size  of  the  breakers;  they  were  gigantic,  towering  forty  feet  before 
they  crashed,  throwing  spray  seventy-five  feet  into  the  air.  The  boat  has 
never  been  built  that  could  go  through  such  surf.  Just  how  would  we  get  to 
Champerico,  I  wondered? 

The  beach  was  lined  with  beautiful,  multi-coloured  shells.  I  picked  up 
all  I  could  carry  in  addition  to  the  coco-nuts  and  palm  heart. 

Ginger  was  pleased  with  my  offerings.  We  had  lots  of  sugar,  and  now 


329 


Holiday  in  the  Cerrado 

that  we  had  the  nuts  we  could  add  coco-nut  candy  to  our  list  of  good  things 
lor  the  day.  Since  she  seemed  anxious  to  have  me  leave  camp,  I  started  out 
once  more  to  find  a  tree. 

It's  strange  how  the  mind  fastens  on  certain  symbols.  At  home  I  doubt 
if  I  should  have  concerned  myself  unduly  over  a  Christmas  tree,  but  out 
here  that  symbol  became  a  link  with  the  past,  which  seemed  farther  away 
than  time.  After  a  vain  search  through  the  humid  jungle,  disconsolate  and 
a  little  home-sick,  I  returned  to  camp. 

“After  all,"  Ginger  reminded  me,  “this  is  the  tropics.  What's  the  matter 
with  that  palm?" 

I  cleared  a  space  round  it,  and  then  went  out  and  collected  some  bright- 
coloured  berries.  Together  we  trimmed  the  little  tree.  Punching  holes  in 
the  shells  that  I  had  brought  from  the  beach,  we  tied  them  to  its  branches 
with  palm  fibre  and  when  our  job  was  finished  the  tree  looked  very  gay. 
On  the  white  sand  beneath  it,  we  placed  the  mysterious  packages  that  we 
had  bought  in  Matias  Romero. 

Then  Ginger  announced,  “Dinner  is  served,"  and  placed  it  on  the  green 
palm  fronds  that  I'd  spread  over  the  sand  in  lieu  of  a  table.  And  such  a 
dinner!  There  was  broiled  turkey  with  coco-nut  stuffing,  cheese  enchiladas , 
fried  onions,  hearts  of  palm  salad,  baked  plantain,  and  parched  corn. 

I  seated  myself. 

“Wait  a  minute,"  she  said.  “Close  your  eyes  and  promise  you  won't 
peek." 

I  heard  her  open  the  grub  box,  and  set  something  down  before  me. 

“You  can  look  now,"  she  said.  I  looked — and  looked  again.  My  eyes 
were  certainly  playing  me  tricks,  for  there  sat  a  three-layer  chocolate  coco¬ 
nut  cake!  Of  course,  I  knew  that  she  had  been  up  to  something,  but  that  she 
could  produce  such  a  miracle  as  this  in  the  jungle  seemed  impossible.  The 
flour  and  baking  powder,  she  confessed,  she  had  obtained  in  Salina  Cruz 
and  had  husbanded  for  just  this  purpose. 

It  was  a  great  day. 

After  dinner  we  made  candy.  Then  towards  dusk  I  remarked  that  it 
would  be  fun  if  we  had  candles  so  that  we  could  light  the  tree.  “We  can," 
Ginger  assured  me.  “We  have  six  candles  to  last  us  until  we  reach  Cham- 
perico;  two  of  them  cut  into  short  lengths  will  be  plenty  for  the  tree." 
Soon  the  little  palm  gleamed  with  six  tiny  candles  that  cast  dancing  lights 
on  the  jungle  walls. 

“It’s  time  for  Santa,"  Ginger  reminded.  So  we  sat  side  by  side  under 
the  palm  and  unwrapped  our  presents.  Silk  underthings  for  Ginger,  and  I 
had  also  remodelled  a  piece  of  good  machete  steel  into  a  hunting  knife  for 
her.  Ginger's  present  to  me  was  a  fine  new  shirt — which  I  needed — and  a 
package  of  my  favourite  pipe  tobacco. 

Our  Christmas  party  lasted  until  midnight.  We  sat  beneath  the  tree  and 
sang  songs — and  felt  more  than  a  little  home-sick.  Two  years  of  roaming, 


3 SO  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

and  all  of  it  fun;  but  tonight,  our  own  people  and  the  old  remote  life  seemed 
suddenly  very  desirable. 

The  next  morning,  rested  and  refreshed  by  our  holiday,  we  started  out 
to  explore  the  surrounding  country.  Many  of  the  forest  creatures  exhibited 
no  fear  of  us,  and  we  were  able  to  approach  them  closely  by  quiet  stalking. 
Sudden  noises  frightened  them,  but  they  did  not  seem  particularly  dis¬ 
turbed  by  the  man  scent.  One  of  the  tree  dwellers,  a  little  animal  about  the 
size  of  a  raccoon,  and  looking  like  a  miniature  bear,  was  new  to  us.  We 
thought  that  it  was  probably  a  sloth.  Also  there  were  many  iguanas  in 
variegated  colourings  that  we  had  not  seen  before,  and  a  large  black  bird, 
about  the  size  of  a  turkey,  with  a  feathered  crest,  that  Ginger  shot  for 
eating. 

We  spent  several  days  at  "Christmas  Camp,"  resting  and  preparing  for 
the  long  jump  ahead.  The  jungle  provided  us  with  ample  raw  materials, 
which  we  converted  into  cooked  foodstuffs  that  could  be  taken  with  us 
My  dulled  machete  was  put  in  shape  to  cut  the  iron  mangroves.  Our  clothes 
were  cleaned  and  such  equipment  as  needed  it  was  overhauled.  At  last 
everything  was  shipshape,  but  we  were  reluctant  to  go.  We  would  come 
back,  we  told  ourselves,  and  spend  months  here.  For  we  never  tired  of 
exploring  the  jungle.  Nor  was  one  piece  of  jungle  like  another.  There  was 
infinite  difference  between  this  stretch  of  country  and  the  forests  of  Oaxaca, 
or  those  of  Guerrero  and  Nayarit. 

Once  again  we  cut  our  way  through  the  cerrado.  Mangrove  swamps 
alternated  with  stretches  of  higher  ground  covered  with  great  trees;  it  was 
as  difficult  travelling  through  one  as  the  other.  In  the  swamps  a  way  had  to 
be  cleared  through  a  solid  wall  of  roots.  Where  the  channel  wound  through 
the  forest  we  had  great  hardwood  logs  to  contend  with;  many  of  them 
were  just  below  the  surface,  and  years  of  submergence  had  hardened  them 
almost  to  the  consistency  of  stone.  The  machete  began  to  look  more  like  a 
saw  than  a  knife.  By  both  of  us  standing  on  the  same  end  of  a  log,  we  were 
sometimes  able  to  sink  it  deep  enough  to  drag  the  canoe  over  without 
unloading.  But  it  was  more  often  necessary  to  unload  and  stack  the  equip¬ 
ment  on  some  ant-infested  tree  trunk.  Sometimes  logs  lay  across  the  chan¬ 
nel.  Then  we  unloaded  the  canoe,  filled  the  cockpit  with  water,  and  shoved 
it  under  the  obstacle.  Whenever  the  canoe  went  over  or  under  these  logs, 
I  removed  every  snag  and  branch  that  I  could  see;  but  in  spite  of  these 
precautions  the  canvas  hull  became  bruised  and  much  paint  was  scraped  off. 

One  of  the  most  difficult  things  to  do  was  to  keep  in  the  channel  where 
it  traversed  the  swamps.  At  times  there  was  almost  no  way  of  knowing 
that  there  was  a  channel  except  by  taking  repeated  soundings. 

Strange  fish  swirled  in  these  black  waters,  whose  grotesque  heads  were 
huge  in  comparison  with  their  small  bodies;  one  creature  looked  half  fish 
and  half  alligator.  Unfamiliar  birds  and  butterflies  circled  round  us.  The 
dank,  humid  atmosphere  and  rotting  vegetation  made  a  perfect  incubator 


Holiday  in  the  Cerrado  33 1 

for  insects,  and  they,  too,  were  everywhere.  There  seemed  to  be  a  hundred 
varieties  of  stinging  flies,  and  ants  without  end.  But  more  annoying  than 
these  scourges  were  the  caterpillars;  wherever  they  touched  our  bodies  a 
red  rash  broke  out  that  burnt  like  fire.  It  was  due  apparently  to  a  poison¬ 
ous  substance  in  the  tiny  hairs,  which  looked  like  spun  glass.  The  water 
also  contained  an  element,  or  an  organism,  that  felt  like  hydrochloric  acid 
on  the  skin;  to  wade  in  it  was  sheer  torture.  We  had  believed  that  the 
country  could  offer  us  no  new  surprises  in  the  way  of  pain,  but  that  was 
before  we  hit  the  caterpillar-infested  growth.  It  took  all  the  grit  we  had 
just  to  keep  going. 

We  were  travelling  through  a  forested  section  of  the  cerrado  when  we 
noticed  that  the  sky  to  the  north  had  become  hazy;  while  we  watched  it 
great  clouds  of  black  smoke  rose  in  the  air.  For  a  moment  we  were  puzzled. 
What  could  it  be?  Then  we  realized  that  we  were  in  the  path  of  a  forest 
lire.  There  was  a  strong  wind  from  the  north,  and  the  flames  would  sweep 
across  the  dry  tindery  ground  on  both  sides  of  us,  setting  fire  to  all  the 
logs  and  branches  in  the  channel  above  the  water  line.  Our  only  safety  lay 
in  reaching  the  swamp  ahead,  and  to  that  end  we  worked  like  mad.  In  our 
haste  we  ran  into  snag  after  snag.  Soon  the  air  was  filled  with  cinders. 
Our  lungs  ached  from  the  acrid  smoke;  the  heat  became  terrific.  Behind  us 
we  could  see  the  red  tongues  of  flame,  and  hear  the  crash  of  giant  trees. 
Our  muscles  hurt  with  the  strain  of  slashing  and  pulling. 

We  had  a  hundred  yards  to  go.  Animals  all  round  us  were  running  for 
their  lives.  Birds  tore  by  overhead;  spotted  jungle  cats  and  deer  raced  side 
by  side,  indifferent  to  our  presence  as  to  each  other,  plunged  into  the  water 
towards  the  safety  of  the  swamp. 

Just  as  we  reached  the  fringe  of  the  mangroves,  the  flames  swept  across 
the  open  space  behind  us,  spanning  the  channel  with  a  bridge  of  fire.  We 
slashed  at  the  roots  that  barred  the  way  until  we  had  sufficient  water  and 
green  growth  between  us  and  the  flames,  then  paused  exhausted  to  rest. 

How  the  fire  started  we  had  no  idea.  There  had  been  no  lightning;  and 
as  far  as  we  knew  there  were  no  natives  living  near-by.  Our  own  fires 
were  always  carefully  doused  with  water  or  covered  with  earth  before  we 
left  a  camp  site.  We  could  only  believe  that  it  had  originated  through  spon¬ 
taneous  combustion  in  some  pile  of  mouldering  vegetation  or  grass  heaped 
up  by  the  wind. 

Towards  sundown  the  channel  emerged  into  open  country  and  turned 
towards  the  beach.  The  fire  had  swept  along  the  shore,  burning  off  the  grass 
and  undergrowth  for  miles.  We  raked  away  the  hot  ashes  from  beneath 
some  palms,  and  set  up  the  tent.  Tired  and  sore  from  the  long  day’s  grind, 
we  wanted  nothing  more  than  a  bite  to  eat  and  a  long  sleep. 

The  next  day’s  journey  led  through  a  dense  growth  of  fresh-water  plants 
that  blocked  the  channel  where  a  river  emptied  into  the  lagoon.  We  cut  long 
poles,  and  laid  them  down  on  each  side  of  the  canoe.  By  stepping  on  the 


332  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

poles  our  weight  sank  the  plants,  and  the  canoe  could  then  be  dragged  for 
a  few  feet,  after  which  we  repeated  the  process. 

Eventually  we  got  through  the  growth,  only  to  have  the  channel  turn 
once  more  into  a  mangrove  swamp.  My  hands  were  blistered,  and  I  was 
very  tired.  Somehow,  in  slashing  a  root,  the  machete  glanced  and  slipped 
from  my  grasp  into  the  water.  This  was  the  last  straw.  We  had  just  taken 
a  sounding  and  knew  the  water  was  eight  feet  deep.  We  looked  at  each 
other  in  consternation.  Without  the  knife  we  were  helpless.  Retreat  along 
the  way  we  had  come  was  impossible.  There  was  nothing  that  ingenuity 
could  devise  that  would  take  the  place  of  the  knife. 

“There's  only  one  thing  to  do,  and  that's  to  dive  for  it,"  I  said. 

Since  it  was  torture  to  wade  in  the  water,  how  could  I  dive  in  it?  Ginger 
asked.  “Try  feeling  round  with  the  harpoon,  and  see  if  you  can  locate  the 
knife." 

But  the  harpoon  failed  to  reveal  any  trace  of  the  elusive  machete.  Finally 
I  unstrapped  my  gun  belt,  and  lowered  myself  into  the  water — wondering 
just  how  many  of  those  strange  fish  were  going  to  sample  my  hide.  I  was 
up  to  my  waist  when  my  toot  came  in  contact  with  a  slimy  log.  Standing 
on  one  foot,  I  felt  round  with  the  other;  it  came  in  contact  with  an  inter¬ 
woven  mass  of  roots.  Diving  was  impossible. 

Ginger  manoeuvred  the  canoe,  while  I  hung  on  to  the  gunwale,  with 
just  my  nose  sticking  out  of  the  water,  exploring  the  ooze  below  with  my 
feet.  A  thousand  leeches  seemed  to  be  boring  their  way  into  my  skin.  And 
then  something  bit  my  toes!  I  yanked  my  foot  out  of  the  water  to  see  what 
damage  had  been  done  and  discovered  not  a  bite,  but  a  long  cut.  The 
machete  was  located.  Now  I  carefully  lowered  both  feet  into  the  hole 
where  I  had  been  “bitten,"  and  found  that  the  knife  had  fallen  handle  end 
first.  How  to  grip  that  blade — which  I  kept  sharp  enough  to  cut  paper — 
between  my  feet  without  slicing  off  a  toe  occupied  all  our  attention  for  the 
next  few  minutes.  It  was  a  ticklish  business,  but  at  last  I  felt  the  smooth 
blade  between  my  feet.  With  Ginger’s  aid  I  hoisted  myself  up  on  to  the 
gunwale.  She  leaned  over  and  retrieved  the  machete. 

It  was  necessary  then  to  remove  the  hordes  of  parasites  that  clung  to 
my  hide — a  dozen  varieties  of  leeches,  many  small  crawling  worms  that 
had  already  started  burrowing  beneath  the  skin,  and  an  insect  that  looked 
like  a  tick.  It  took  over  half  an  hour  to  get  them  all. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  we  left  the  cerrado  behind  us,  and  entered  the 
channel  that  led  to  Sacapulco  Bar  and  the  ocean.  Turning  the  canoe  round, 
we  took  up  our  old  positions  at  the  paddles.  It  was  great  to  have  the 
Vagabunda  back  in  her  natural  element.  We  made  a  ceremony  of  stowing 
the  machete  away. 

The  roar  of  the  surf  sounded  good  to  our  ears  that  night  as  we  made 
camp  on  the  sand  bar  between  the  lagoon  and  the  sea.  We  had  been  swamp 
sailors  so  long  that  we  were  hungry  for  the  sight  of  open  water.  And  so 


333 


Holiday  in  the  Cerrado 

after  supper,  when  Ginger  suggested  that  we  go  down  to  the  ocean  and 
see  a  ship,  we  trotted  off  across  the  dunes.  To  our  delighted  surprise  we  did 
see  one.  It  was  a  long  way  offshore,  but  we  watched  its  twinkling  lights 
until  they  faded  from  view  as  it  sailed  northward.  We  saw  it  go  with  a  faint 
nostalgia. 

"I  wonder  if  you're  thinking  what  I'm  thinking?"  Ginger  queried. 

I  laughed.  "Yes,  I'm  thinking  that  the  surf  isn't  too  high  for  a  swim." 

We  waded  out  into  the  clean,  salt  water  that  had  so  long  been  a  luxury; 
its  bite  soothed  the  intolerable  itching  of  our  skins.  Then  we  lolled  in  the 
shallows  while  the  breakers  tumbled  over  us,  and  finished  off  the  evening 
with  a  brisk  run  up  the  beach  to  relieve  our  cramped  leg  muscles.  At  last 
we  returned  to  camp,  dog-tired,  out  of  breath,  and  ready  for  a  long  sleep. 

After  the  dirt  and  insects  of  the  cerrado ,  the  fine  clean  sand  looked  good 
to  me,  and  I  proposed  that  we  stay  on  the  beach  for  several  days.  The 
canoe  was  in  none  too  good  shape  and  needed  a  coat  of  shark-oil  paint.  But 
to  my  astonishment  Ginger  wasn’t  quite  satisfied  with  the  place. 

"What's  the  matter?"  I  asked.  "I  don't  know  what  better  camp  site  any 
one  could  ask  than  this." 

"It  is  a  fine  place,"  she  agreed,  "but  there  are  no  coco-nut  palms  here." 

"Just  what  are  you  driving  at?"  I  demanded. 

Had  I  forgotten  that  tonight  was  New  Year's  Eve?  Why  not  a  New 
Year's  party?  Of  course,  you  had  to  have  something  with  which  to  celebrate 
such  an  occasion.  It  took  about  four  hours  to  ferment  coco-nut  sap.  If  you 
put  the  sap  in  the  still  ...  it  was  the  same  procedure  as  making  fresh  water. 

A  great  light  broke  over  me.  "Oh,  that's  it!  Let's  go." 

But  where  to  find  a  coco-nut  grove?  Two  miles  down  the  lagoon  we 
sighted  a  village.  Approaching  closer,  we  could  see  that  it  was  deserted. 
We  beached  the  canoe  and  wandered  among  the  tumbledown  huts.  Off  to 
one  side  there  was  a  large  graveyard  which  contained  nearly  two  hundred 
graves  of  approximately  the  same  age.  The  huts  indicated  that  the  village 
had  had  a  population  of  perhaps  two  hundred  people.  Then  I  remembered 
the  story  that  the  old  man  at  Punta  Duro  had  told  us.  This  must  be  the 
village  of  La  Barra  whose  inhabitants  had  died  of  malaria.  We  left  it  in  a 
hurry. 

Six  miles  south  of  La  Barra  we  found  the  ideal  site  for  our  second  holi¬ 
day  camp.  A  beautiful  grove  of  coco-nut  trees  grew  on  a  grass-covered 
beach  on  the  ocean  side  of  the  blue  lagoon.  While  Ginger  prepared  the^ 
midday  meal,  I  cut  down  a  large  palm — felling  it  in  such  a  way  that  the 
butt  end  of  the  bole  was  higher  than  the  top;  then  I  trimmed  off  its  branches, 
and  cut  a  square  hole  in  its  trunk  just  below  the  heart.  The  sap  began  to 
drain  immediately  into  the  cavity. 

After  lunch  we  went  back  to  the  tree  with  our  mess  kettles.  The  hole 
was  completely  filled  with  foaming  sap  which  we  dipped  out  into  the  pots 
and  set  in  the  sun.  In  an  hour  we  had  two  gallons  of  the  fluid.  We  poured 


334  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

this  into  the  five-gallon  still  can,  added  a  little  sugar,  and  hung  the  can 
over  the  cooking  fire  out  of  reach  of  the  ants.  While  waiting  for  it  to 
ferment,  we  cut  a  trail  to  the  beach  and  enjoyed  another  long  swim.  At 
four  o’clock  we  returned  to  camp,  and  while  Ginger  started  dinner  I  rigged 
up  the  still  and  built  a  good  fire  under  it.  As  soon  as  the  liquid  in  the  can 
became  hot,  I  raked  away  most  of  the  coals  so  that  it  would  just  simmer, 
then  began  pouring  cold  lagoon  water  over  the  condensing  can  Alcohol 
will  not  condense  at  as  high  a  temperature  as  does  water.  When  more  sap 
collected  in  the  palm  bole,  I  added  it  to  the  quantity  already  in  the  still. 

Dinner  over,  we  made  additional  preparations  for  the  party  by  construct¬ 
ing  small  bombs  out  of  powder  from  .22  shells. 

At  ten  o’clock  we  were  ready  to  celebrate  New  Year’s  Eve  in  the  tradi¬ 
tional  fashion.  It  must  have  been  a  grand  party,  but  we  both  had  a  little 
difficulty  remembering  some  of  the  evening's  finer  details  the  next  morn¬ 
ing.  1  remember  sitting  on  the  bank  in  the  moonlight  and  toasting  the  New 
Year,  the  Adventurer’s  Trail,  Mexico  and  the  Mexican  people,  the  fallen 
palm  that  had  produced  this  magic  brew,  and  even  the  mosquitoes  that 
buzzed  round  our  ears — it  was  that  kind  of  a  party.  We  exploded  the 
bombs  at  midnight,  but  were  disappointed  in  the  amount  of  noise  they 
made.  By  then  nothing  short  of  a  cannon  would  have  been  entirely  satis¬ 
factory.  However,  there  was  nothing  ineffective  about  the  liquid  dynamite 
that  we  had  concocted;  it  was  an  outstanding  success. 

The  next  morning,  after  a  few  simple  restoratives,  a  swim  in  the  ocean 
and  a  very  light  breakfast,  we  packed  our  things  and  sailed  on  down  the 
lagoon.  At  ten  o'clock  we  arrived  at  the  little  village  of  Zapotal. 

As  we  swung  in  towards  the  shore,  the  natives  ran  up  and  down  the 
beach  screaming  and  shouting,  “Viva  Ano  Nueva — Feliz  Ano  NuevaV  The 
village  had  been  waiting  for  us  all  morning,  the  Presidente  informed  us, 
and  had  prepared  a  New  Year's  fiesta  in  our  honour.  How  they  could  pos¬ 
sibly  have  known  of  our  arrival  we  have  no  idea.  We  got  only  smiles  in 
answer  to  our  questions.  After  the  Presidente  gave  us  the  “familiar  em¬ 
brace’’  the  crowd  almost  tore  us  to  pieces,  overwhelming  us  with  offers  of 
food  and  drink.  A  marimba  began  playing,  and  everyone  started  to  dance. 
It  was  a  perfect  bedlam  as  the  roar  of  home-made  fireworks  mingled  with 
the  music  and  the  shouts  and  laughter  of  the  hilarious  natives. 

To  our  relief,  things  quieted  down  a  bit  after  lunch  when  the  siesta 
hour  claimed  some  of  the  celebrants.  The  pampa  was  wide  at  this  point, 
and  since  there  was  a  fair  breeze,  I  suggested  to  the  Presidente  that  we 
take  him  out  for  a  sail.  As  usual  when  the  villagers  got  wind  of  what  we 
meant  to  do,  they  all  tried  to  clamber  aboard.  Only  the  Presidente' s  au¬ 
thority  saved  the  canoe  from  foundering  on  the  spot.  To  preserve  peace  I 
promised  to  take  the  crowd  in  relays  later.  Most  of  the  afternoon  conse¬ 
quently  passed  in  treating  the  Indians  to  a  ride — four  at  a  time.  None  had 


CHAMPCRICO 


' 


Holiday  in  the  Cerrado  337 

ever  been  in  a  sailboat  before,  and  they  almost  fell  overboard  in  their  ex¬ 
citement. 

When  it  came  the  children's  turn,  they  were  so  excited  that  we  could 
hardly  control  them.  Little  Indians  are  ordinarily  the  best-behaved  children 
in  the  world,  but  these  youngsters  were  beside  themselves.  A  dozen  or 
more  would  try  to  climb  into  the  canoe  at  once — we  could  carry  only  eight. 
They  squealed  and  waved  their  arms  to  their  friends  on  shore.  Occasionally 
a  child  would  try  to  stand  upright  on  deck. 

Finally  the  last  boatload  had  been  safely  returned  to  their  anxious  moth¬ 
ers,  and  we  sighed  with  relief.  Now,  we  thought,  we  can  join  their  parents 
or  rest  a  bit.  But  there  was  no  way  to  rid  ourselves  of  the  children;  they 
clung  to  our  garments,  all  of  them  talking  at  once  and  clamouring  for 
attention. 

"How  about  teaching  them  some  games?"  Ginger  suggested. 

After  securing  the  Presidents  s  permission,  Ginger  took  the  little  girls 
to  a  near-by  clearing,  where  she  taught  them  "Blindman's  buff,"  "Drop 
the  handkerchief,"  and  "In  and  out  the  window."  I  started  the  boys  playing 
"Dare  base."  In  a  few  minutes  some  of  the  younger  men  broke  away  from 
the  dancing  and  joined  us. 

One  attractive  young  man  by  the  name  of  Emiliano,  introducing  him¬ 
self  to  me,  asked  me  to  teach  the  games  to  him,  so  that  he  could  continue 
to  instruct  the  village  children  after  our  departure.  I  showed  him  Indian 
wrestling,  "cock  fight"  and  similar  games,  which  he  in  turn  taught  to  the 
other  young  men.  By  sundown  a  regular  field  meet  was  in  progress,  with 
nearly  the  entire  contingent  of  able-bodied  villagers  participating.  A  "tug 
of  war"  wound  up  the  festivities. 

Emiliano  owned  the  only  oxcart  in  the  village,  and  he  was  also  the  only 
person  who  seemed  to  know  anything  about  the  country  to  the  south.  The 
lagoon  on  which  Zapotal  was  located  turned  inland,  he  said,  and  the  next 
lagoon  that  was  parallel  to  the  coast  lay  six  miles  beyond  it.  There  were 
no  connecting  waterways.  The  portage  would  have  to  be  made  by  oxcart. 
He  readily  agreed  to  transport  us  to  the  next  pampa  the  following  after¬ 
noon. 

Emiliano  was  as  good  as  his  word,  and  left  us  at  a  village  called  Punta 
Llano.  From  there  on  for  the  next  two  weeks  everything  went  wrong. 

Leaving  Punta  Llano,  we  sailed  on  down  the  lagoon,  hoping  by  some 
hook  or  crook  to  reach  the  pampa  below  it.  Natives  whom  we  met  en  route 
assured  us  that  the  way  was  entirely  blocked  by  dense  growths  of  fresh¬ 
water  plants  such  as  we  had  fought  our  way  through  farther  back.  Once 
was  enough;  so,  disappointed,  we  retraced  our  steps  to  an  uncharted  bar 
we  had  discovered. 

We  sat  round  for  several  days  on  the  sand  dunes,  waiting  for  the  high 
seas  to  subside;  and  had  just  about  made  up  our  minds  to  risk  the  surf  and 
continue  on  down  the  coast,  when  a  horseman  brought  word  that  the  Prest - 


338  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

dente  of  Zapotal  was  waiting  for  us  at  Punta  Llano.  He  wished  to  see  us, 
said  the  messenger,  because  he  had  heard  that  we  were  marooned  at  the 
bar;  and  he  wanted  to  tell  us  about  another  estero  that  would  lead  us  to  the 
lagoons  further  south.  This  puzzled  us,  because  the  Presidente  had  appar¬ 
ently  been  unaware  of  such  a  passage  only  a  few  days  before.  But  you  never 
knew  with  natives,  we  told  ourselves. 

Back  in  Punta  Llano  I  searched  for  the  Presidente  in  vain.  “No,  Senor, 
he  is  not  here,  nor  has  he  been  here,”  said  the  villagers.  I  left  Ginger, 
borrowed  a  horse,  and  rode  to  Zapotal;  but  the  elusive  Presidente  was  not 
there.  Perhaps,  said  the  natives,  he  might  be  found  in  Las  Quatch,  one  of 
the  three  little  villages  under  his  authority.  I  borrowed  a  dugout  and  went 
to  Las  Quatch,  where  I  finally  caught  up  with  him  in  the  store  that  he 
owned. 

“No,  Senor,”  he  admitted  under  questioning,  “there  are  no  other  esteros. 
But  it  is  very  dangerous  for  you  to  attempt  to  sail  on  the  ocean,  and  I 
thought  if  we  could  bring  you  back  you  might  be  persuaded  to  make  the 
journey  to  Manguito  by  oxcart.  I  will  arrange  for  the  carts.” 

This  sounded  fine,  and  I  gratefully  accepted  his  offer.  Manguito  was 
ten  leguas ,  roughly  thirty  miles,  due  south.  With  the  exception  of  one 
small  lagoon,  the  country  between  Punta  Llano  and  Manguito  seemed  im¬ 
passable  except  by  oxcart. 

Back  in  Zapotal,  I  hunted  up  Emiliano,  and  arranged  with  him  to  trans¬ 
port  the  canoe  to  the  village  of  El  Lombrado,  where  the  Presidente  had 
promised  to  have  the  carts.  El  Lombrado,  Zapotal,  and  Las  Quatch  were 
the  three  pueblos  over  which  the  Presidente  presided.  El  Lombrado  was 
nearest  to  Punta  Llano,  only  a  mile  away.  Emiliano  agreed  to  be  in  Punta 
Llano  early  the  next  morning. 

Well  pleased  with  the  results  of  my  trip,  I  hurried  to  Punta  Llano  to 
tell  Ginger  the  good  news. 

We  were  up  at  daylight,  ready  and  waiting  for  Emiliano,  but  noon  came 
and  he  failed  to  appear.  About  three  o'clock  I  became  uneasy,  and  again 
borrowed  a  horse  and  started  back  to  Zapotal  in  search  of  him.  According 
to  the  arrangements  I  had  made  with  the  Presidente ,  we  should  have  left 
El  Lombrado  hours  ago. 

On  the  way  I  met  the  cart.  Emiliano  was  riding  a  horse  and  importantly 
shouting  orders  to  a  very  drunk  native  by  the  name  of  Pancho,  who  was 
driving  the  oxen.  I  had  made  Pancho’s  acquaintance  during  the  New  Year’s 
festivities  in  Zapotal;  and  he  had  been  drunk  and  quarrelsome  on  that  oc¬ 
casion.  The  day  after,  still  drunk,  he  had  accompanied  us  on  horseback  to 
Punta  Llano,  and  had  fallen  off  his  horse.  I  was  anything  but  pleased  to 
see  Pancho. 

In  Punta  Llano  we  finally  loaded  the  canoe  and  equipment  on  the  cart, 
but  not  before  Pancho  had  driven  us  almost  as  crazy  as  Pedro  of  Aguas 
Pocas  fame  had  done.  He  backed  the  oxen  into  the  brush,  got  tangled  up 


Holiday  in  the  Cerrado  339 

in  the  harpoon,  dropped  the  equipment  box  in  the  mud,  and  finally  insisted 
on  riding  on  the  canoe. 

When  we  reached  El  Lombrado  there  were  no  carts  waiting  for  us  as 
promised.  The  Presidente’s  secreta.no  finally  put  in  an  appearance.  Tomor¬ 
row  there  would  be  carts,  he  said.  In  the  meantime,  he  had  arranged  for  us 
to  stay  in  the  village  overnight.  The  teams  would  arrive  at  daylight. 

At  nine  o'clock  the  next  morning  one  cart  did  arrive.  The  other  cart 
would  arrive  at  noon,  we  were  told.  Late  in  the  afternoon  we  learnt  that 
the  cart  would  arrive  in  the  morning. 

We  were  up  before  daylight  of  the  second  morning,  all  packed  and  ready 
to  go.  At  ten  o'clock  the  secretario  started  out  to  find  the  missing  cart.  He 
returned  in  triumph  with  it,  but  announced  that  its  driver  refused  to  make 
the  trip.  At  the  secretario’ s  suggestion  we  began  loading  the  canoe  on  the 
driverless  cart;  he  assured  us  that  before  we  had  finished,  he  would  have 
secured  a  driver.  To  say  the  least,  this  was  optimism  on  his  part.  When  the 
canoe  was  finally  loaded,  he  reappeared  with  the  good  news  that  the  first 
cartman  had  reconsidered  and  now  refused  to  make  the  trip. 

"Contain  yourself,  Senor,"  said  the  secretario  soothingly,  “I  go  now  to 
find  drivers — it  will  be  very  simple."  Everything  would  be  fine,  he  said, 
if  we  would  exercise  patience.  Just  then  Pancho,  quite  sober,  put  in  an 
appearance,  and  volunteered  his  services.  We  thanked  him,  but  told  the 
secretario  privately  that  under  no  circumstances  would  we  consider  Pancho. 
No,  no,  if  we  didn't  want  Pancho  that  was  quite  all  right,  the  secretario  said; 
it  was  a  simple  matter  to  get  drivers.  Nothing  could  disturb  his  serenity. 
He  hurried  off. 

At  last  the  drivers  were  secured,  and  everything  looked  rosy.  At  that 
point  the  secretario  handed  me  a  letter.  This  letter,  he  said,  was  to  the 
Presidente  of  La  Calle,  a  village  half-way  between  El  Lombrado  and  Man- 
guito:  it  requested  him  to  furnish  us  with  oxcarts  and  men  for  the  rest  of 
the  trip,  since  the  drivers  from  this  village  did  not  know  the  way  past 
La  Calle. 

Any  such  scheme  as  this  was  just  asking  for  trouble  and  we  knew  it. 
No,  I  said,  we'd  give  up  the  idea  of  making  the  portage  and  take  our 
chances  with  the  ocean.  How  did  we  know  that  we  could  get  oxcarts  in 
La  Calle?  Why,  said  the  secretario  and  the  Presidente ,  it  would  be  just  as 
easy  to  get  oxcarts  in  La  Calle  as  it  had  been  in  El  Lombrado.  That  state¬ 
ment  alone  should  have  warned  us. 

We  were  all  ready  to  leave  when  we  noticed  Pancho  standing  by  the 
oxen  of  the  canoe  cart.  Ginger  asked  the  Presidente  if  Pancho  were  making 
the  trip.  No,  he  answered,  just  walking  a  little  ways — the  driver  was  an 
especial  friend  of  Pancho's.  We  started  off,  Pancho  walking  beside  the  lead 
cart,  while  I  walked  beside  the  second  cart  on  which  Ginger  rode. 

On  the  outskirts  of  town,  the  driver  of  the  lead  cart  said  that  he  had  for¬ 
gotten  something  in  the  village  and  must  go  back  and  get  it;  in  just  a  few 


340  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

minutes  he  would  rejoin  the  carts,  but  we  were  not  to  wait.  Then  he  ran 
past  us  in  a  great  hurry.  And  that  was  the  last  we  were  to  see  of  him.  The 
driver  of  the  second  cart  had  difficulty  in  starting  his  team,  so  some  time 
elapsed  before  we  again  came  in  sight  of  Pancho,  who  was  riding  astride 
the  canoe.  I  hauled  him  down  in  a  hurry. 

Right  then  and  there  we  should  have  gone  back  to  El  Lombrado — and 
saved  ourselves  a  lot  of  trouble.  Pancho,  I  found  out,  couldn't  drive  an  ox 
team;  but  for  some  unknown  reason  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  go  with  us. 
Porfirio,  the  driver  of  the  second  cart,  was  an  experienced  man;  and  so  we 
compromised  by  giving  him  the  lead  cart,  and  making  Pancho  drive  the 
second  cart — after  a  fashion. 

The  road  led  through  dense  jungle,  and  was  uneven  and  full  of  roots. 
There  were  swarms  of  mosquitoes,  and  flies  of  a  particularly  dangerous 
species,  which  bit  us  behind  the  ears.  These  flies  deposit  their  eggs  beneath 
the  skin  of  a  living  host;  and  if  the  eggs  are  not  removed  before  they  have 
had  time  to  hatch,  the  maggots  burrow  deeper  into  the  flesh.  The  natives 
say  the  flies  cause  blindness.  While  travelling  through  an  extremely  dense 
section  of  growth  both  ox  teams  plunged  off  the  road  and  into  the  brush. 
Porfirio  explained  that  the  bite  of  a  certain  fly,  which  inhabits  this  heavy 
undergrowth,  drives  the  animals  crazy;  and  that  whenever  they  begin  to 
annoy  the  beasts,  the  oxen  become  uncontrollable. 

In  the  late  afternoon  we  passed  through  a  lovely  stretch  of  country,  and 
I  wanted  to  take  a  picture  of  it,  including  myself  and  the  oxen.  We  stopped 
the  teams,  while  I  went  on  ahead  to  set  the  camera  and  start  the  automatic 
device.  Then  I  sprinted  back  towards  the  carts.  This  frightened  the  oxen, 
who  took  to  the  brush.  But  I  finally  got  their  pictures  and  my  own  by 
roping  their  horns  to  a  tree.  These  oxen,  I  might  mention — the  natives 
have  a  weakness  for  fancy  names — were  called  Grano  de  Oro  (Grain  of 
Gold),  Noble,  Diamonte  and  Rosita!  The  names  were  without  exception 
inappropriate — particularly  Grano  de  Oro  and  Noble,  for  that  precious  pair 
were  neither  golden  nor  noble. 

Arrived  at  La  Calle  soon  after  sundown,  Pancho  said  he  was  on  the  verge 
of  collapse;  even  though  he  had  ridden  on  the  equipment  cart  for  hours 
while  I  led  his  team.  We  learnt,  furthermore,  that  the  Presidente  was  not 
in  La  Calle.  The  villagers  thought  he  could  be  found  in  La  Blanca,  about  a 
mile  away.  We  tried  to  induce  Pancho  to  stay  behind  and  rest  while  we 
went  in  search  of  him;  but  in  this,  as  in  everything  else,  Pancho  was  con¬ 
trary;  if  we  went  to  La  Blanca,  he,  Pancho,  would  go  to  La  Blanca — even 
if  it  killed  him.  He  moaned  and  groaned  as  we  toiled  up  the  steep  trail. 

We  finally  ran  the  Presidente  to  earth  in  La  Blanca.  He  was  sorry,  he 
said,  but  there  were  no  oxcarts  in  the  village.  Oxen,  yes,  but  no  carts.  We 
retraced  our  steps  to  La  Calle.  Yes,  there  were  carts,  but  no  oxen,  said  the 
villagers.  “My  God,"  I  groaned  to  Ginger,  “the  truth  isn't  in  them.  How 
are  we  going  to  get  to  water?" 


Holiday  in  the  Cerrado  341 

"Let's  unhitch  the  oxen  and  let  them  feed  and  rest  while  we  have  our 
own  supper,"  she  suggested.  "Maybe  we’ll  have  an  inspiration." 

Pancho  refused  to  eat,  and  sat  sulking  throughout  the  meal.  Both  he  and 
Porfirio  were  all  for  unloading  their  carts  and  returning  at  once  to  Ed 
Lombrado,  leaving  us  to  get  out  of  our  mess  as  best  we  could.  This  I  re¬ 
fused  to  let  them  do;  and  this  was  the  reason  for  Pancho’s  refusal  to  eat. 
Then  I  made  Porfirio  a  tempting  offer — one  whole  box  of  fishhooks  for 
himself  if  he  would  take  us  to  Manguito.  Yes,  he  would  gladly  do  so,  but 
he  did  not  know  the  road.  Pancho,  hearing  this,  set  up  a  wail,  " Hasta 
Manguito?"  ("As  far  as  Manguito?") 

We  spent  the  intervening  hours  until  midnight  trying  to  find  some  one 
who  knew  the  road.  There  were  natives  who  knew  it,  but  none  that  we 
could  induce  to  go  with  us.  Then  the  Presidente  put  in  an  appearance.  In 
the  morning  there  would  be  carts,  but  they  would  take  us  only  to  the  next 
rancho ,  he  said.  Of  course,  we  could  easily  secure  fresh  teams  at  the  rancho. 
"Nothing  doing,"  I  said  to  Ginger.  "I've  heard  all  the  ‘in  the  morning' 
stuff  I  ever  want  to  listen  to.  There's  just  one  thing  to  do — forget  Man¬ 
guito  and  try  to  get  to  Pampa  Hondo.  It’s  only  six  miles  away." 

Porfirio  had  never  been  to  Pampa  Hondo  either.  Surely  the  Senor  did 
not  mean  to  go  that  night?  The  Senor  and  Senora  most  emphatically  did 
mean  to  go,  I  assured  him.  Pancho  had  said  that  the  Presidente  would  be 
very  angry  if  the  oxen  were  not  returned,  at  the  latest,  by  the  following 
day,  and  Porfirio  had  confirmed  this.  There  was  the  possibility  that  he 
might  ride  over,  or  send  some  one  to  bring  them  back,  by  morning.  Never¬ 
theless,  I  ordered  Porfirio  to  hitch  the  beasts  to  the  carts.  Then  Pancho 
wailed  that  he  and  the  oxen  were  too  tired  to  make  the  trip.  Personally,  we 
hoped  that  he  would  stay  in  La  Calle,  I  told  him.  After  that  he  pulled  him¬ 
self  together,  and  insisted  that  he  be  allowed  to  go  to  Pampa  Hondo. 

No  two  people  agreed  on  the  route,  so  I  started  oft' on  a  road  which  led 
in  the  general  direction  of  the  lagoon  and  let  Porfirio  follow  with  the 
equipment  cart.  It  was  bright  moonlight,  and  the  road  was  not  difficult  to 
follow.  At  the  first  rancho  we  stopped  and  woke  up  the  rancher  and  asked 
for  directions.  We  were  on  the  right  road.  Pancho  folded  up  once  more 
and  rode  the  balance  of  the  way  with  Ginger  on  the  equipment  cart.  At 
3  a.m.  we  arrived  at  another  rancho.  The  road  had  dwindled  to  a  cart 
track  by  now,  so  the  rancher's  son  saddled  a  horse  to  escort  us  the  balance 
of  the  way.  The  brush  was  full  of pinolillos,  and  our  bodies  became  covered 
with  them. 

We  arrived  at  Pampa  Hondo  at  six  o’clock  in  the  morning,  had  break¬ 
fast,  and  immediately  the  men  set  out  for  La  Calle.  The  next  four  hours 
Ginger  and  I  spent  in  removing  the  pin olil los.  These  insects  were  a  par¬ 
ticularly  vicious  variety  with  hooked  heads;  when  they  were  pulled  out, 
the  hooks  remained  underneath  the  skin  and  left  a  wicked  sore.  Ginger  had 


342  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

picked  up  fewer  of  them  because  she  had  ridden  most  of  the  way  on  the 
cart,  but  my  body  was  so  swollen  that  I  could  hardly  move. 

The  next  seven  days  were  a  nightmare.  I  have  often  wondered  since 
just  how  we  managed  to  live  through  them.  We  assuredly  would  never 
have  survived  were  it  not  that  we  had  gradually  built  up  an  immunity  to 
poisons,  heat,  thirst,  hunger,  and  fatigue. 

Pampa  Hondo  was  a  small  body  of  water  just  a  mile  and  a  half  long, 
and  its  only  outlet  was  a  narrow  channel  running  through  a  cerrado  that 
made  our  two  previous  mangrove  swamps  seem  child’s  play.  Day  after  day 
we  cut  our  way  through  a  ring  of  iron  roots.  There  was  not  an  inch  of  dry 
land  on  which  to  set  up  camp.  Since  we  had  no  opportunity  to  distil  water 
we  carefully  rationed  out  what  we  had — a  pint  a  day  apiece.  The  growth 
was  full  of  ants,  spiders,  and  caterpillars,  and  these,  added  to  the  mosqui¬ 
toes,  made  our  lives  miserable.  Our  bodies  were  a  solid  mass  of  sores, 
welts,  bruises,  and  insect  bites.  The  pain  was  intense. 

On  the  seventh  day  the  channel  led  through  a  particularly  heavy  grove 
of  young  mangroves.  We  were  entirely  out  of  food  and  water,  and  so 
weakened  by  hunger,  thirst,  and  pain  that  each  bodily  movement  was  a 
separate  act  of  sheer  will.  Slowly  we  crept  forward,  a  few  feet  at  a  time, 
tunnelling  our  way  through  the  barricade.  How  much  longer  we  could  keep 
it  up  was  only  a  matter  of  hours.  The  charts  gave  our  position  as  a  few 
miles  north  of  a  considerable  body  of  open  water,  but  distances  measured 
in  miles  meant  nothing  and  the  charts  might  not  be  accurate.  We  had  been 
averaging  less  than  four  miles  a  day. 

Then  at  sundown  we  reached  the  lagoon.  Our  relief  was  so  great  that 
we  could  hardly  contain  ourselves;  it  was  a  new  lease  on  life.  Ginger 
scooped  up  a  handful  of  water  and  tasted  it;  it  was  clean  and  salt.  Piling 
over  the  side  of  the  canoe,  we  let  it  cleanse  and  soothe  our  tired,  burning 
bodies. 

We  beached  and  unloaded  near  a  coco-nut  grove.  Since  my  body  was  too 
swollen  and  sore  to  allow  me  to  climb  a  tree,  we  both  worked  at  chopping 
one  down.  Then  we  feasted  on  the  crisp  white  palm  heart,  and  drank  the 
cool,  refreshing  milk. 

After  a  night  and  a  day  of  alternately  resting,  eating,  drinking,  and  soak¬ 
ing  ourselves  in  the  lagoon,  we  started  off  in  search  of  the  village  of 
Manguito.  It  was  located,  we  knew,  on  one  of  the  dozens  of  channels  that 
threaded  the  numerous  islands,  but  which  one  was  a  problem.  We  paddled 
for  hours  through  the  maze  of  lagoons;  and  had  just  about  decided  to  give 
up  the  search  for  the  time  being  when  we  saw  a  faint  glimmer  of  light 
ahead.  A  little  farther  on  the  glow  of  cooking  fires  came  into  view. 

Our  arrival  occasioned  a  great  deal  of  excitement.  The  natives  had 
heard  of  us,  via  the  grapevine  telegraph,  and  knew  that  we  were  attempt¬ 
ing  to  pass  through  the  cerrado ,  but  that  we  should  have  succeeded  seemed 


343 


Holiday  in  the  Cerrado 

to  them — as  it  did  to  us — in  the  nature  of  a  miracle.  The  frightful  condition 
of  our  bodies,  more  than  anything  we  said,  convinced  them. 

One  of  the  women  took  Ginger  in  her  arms.  “Poor  little  one,  you  are 
very  tired.  Come  with  me/' 

She  took  us  to  her  hut,  which  was  one  of  the  largest  in  the  village.  Here 
we  rested,  while  the  good  Senora  Lencha  prepared  the  evening  meal,  the 
first  hot  food  we  had  eaten  in  eight  days.  Never  had  food  tasted  so  good. 
For  dessert  we  were  given  a  hard,  brown  confection  that  looked  like  a 
cookie  and  was  delicious.  They  were  called  tureletas ,  and  were  made  with 
corn,  eggs,  and  panela.  Possibly  they  were  a  village  specialty,  for  we  found 
them  nowhere  else. 

After  the  meal  the  natives  kept  talking  among  themselves  about  a  bath 
and  soap.  Since  we  had  spent  most  of  the  preceding  night  and  half  the  day 
soaking  in  the  lagoon,  we  were  puzzled;  our  clothes  and  our  persons  were 
clean.  Then  they  explained  that  they  were  worried  about  the  multitude  of 
little  caterpillar  hairs  that  still  stuck  to  our  skins.  If  the  “hairs  of  the  little 
worms”  were  not  promptly  removed,  they  said,  our  skins  would  rot  away, 
and  we  would  die.  They  never  entered  the  cerrado  because  of  these  worms; 
no,  not  even  for  one  hundred  pesos  would  they  go  ten  feet.  They  finally 
proposed  that  we  allow  them  to  give  us  a  bath. 

The  women  led  Ginger  in  one  direction,  while  the  men  took  me  to  an¬ 
other  part  of  the  lagoon.  Then  with  a  great  deal  of  merriment  (not  shared 
by  us)  they  proceeded  to  give  us  a  scrubdown  that  we  will  remember  to 
the  end  of  our  days.  A  tar-and-feathering  would  be  preferable  any  day. 
But  this  was  not  all.  There  was  more  whispered  conversation.  Several 
natives  dashed  away  and  returned,  after  which  an  old  man  motioned  me 
to  follow  him. 

He  led  me  to  a  hut  where  an  olla  filled  with  some  peculiar,  evil-smelling 
liquid  simmered  over  the  fire  and  asked  me  to  remove  my  clothes.  “Oh, 
Lord,”  I  groaned,  “what's  coming  now?”  Dipping  his  hands  in  the  olla, 
he  smeared  me  from  head  to  toe  with  the  mess,  which  seemed  to  be  a  mix¬ 
ture  of  coco-nut  oil  and  herbs;  he  even  rubbed  the  stuff  in  my  hair.  I 
smelled  like  ten  thousand  polecats.  When  he  had  finished  I  reached  for  my 
clothes,  but  he  shook  his  head.  Washing  was  not  enough,  he  said,  the 
clothes  had  to  be  boiled  to  remove  the  hairs.  He  handed  me  a  large  sheet  of 
handwoven  cloth,  which  I  wrapped  round  me  as  best  I  could.  Draped  in  my 
Roman  toga,  I  followed  him  back  to  Lencha’s  hut. 

Ginger  soon  arrived  outfitted  in  a  similar  rig.  Without  further  delay 
we  were  ushered  into  a  smaller  hut  and  put  to  bed  on  a  palm-leaf  cot.  For 
the  first  time  in  over  a  week  we  were  free  from  the  intolerable  itching  that 
had  tormented  us  both  night  and  day.  Almost  instantly  we  dropped  off'  to 
sleep. 

When  we  awakened  the  next  morning  the  swelling  had  gone  down,  the 
itching  had  subsided,  and  we  were  fairly  comfortable.  Clean  native  clothes 


344  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

were  laid  out  beside  the  cot.  For  the  second  time  we  owed  our  lives,  per¬ 
haps,  to  native  care  and  medication. 

Our  presence  was  a  fine  excuse  for  a  fiesta;  and  we  spent  the  day  in  a 
round  of  feasting,  drinking,  and  conversation.  We  were  infinitely  in  the 
villagers'  debt,  yet  they  never  made  us  feel  the  slightest  trace  of  obliga¬ 
tion.  One  of  the  women  had  a  few  yards  of  blue  cloth,  and  wanted  Ginger 
to  show  her  how  to  make  a  dress  for  her  seven-year-old  daughter  "such 
as  the  little  girls  in  your  country  wear."  Ginger  was,  of  course,  delighted 
to  be  of  some  service.  The  garment  when  finished  had  a  full  skirt  gathered 
on  to  a  short  yoke,  with  puffed  sleeves,  and  made  an  enormous  hit. 

In  the  course  of  the  day  I  made  the  usual  inquiries  about  the  country  to 
the  south,  and  was  relieved  to  find  that  the  open  lagoon  extended  down  to 
Soconusco  Bar.  Near  the  bar,  they  said,  was  the  great  house  of  a  wealthy 
German,  a  very  rich  man,  who  owned  a  boat  with  an  engine  in  it.  I  asked 
what  his  business  was,  and  why  he  lived  there,  but  was  told  that  he  had 
no  business;  he  was  just  a  very  rich  man  who  had  come  to  this  country  and 
built  a  great  house  with  many  rooms  in  it.  He  was  a  very  good  friend  to  all 
the  natives  in  the  district.  "By  all  means,"  they  told  me,  "you  should  stop 
for  a  few  days  and  visit  this  man;  he  will  be  very  glad  to  see  you."  From 
the  natives'  description  of  the  German's  establishment,  we  had  visions  of 
a  castle  among  palm  trees,  set  between  the  lagoon  and  the  sea;  a  romantic 
retreat  for  some  man  who  wanted  to  get  away  from  the  world. 

The  next  day  we  left  the  village,  eager  to  meet  the  El  Sehor  Aleman  of 
whom  the  natives  talked  so  much.  Discovering  that  the  fifteen  different 
directions  we  had  been  given  for  reaching  his  place  were  all  of  them  hope¬ 
lessly  wrong,  we  stopped  at  a  small  rancheria  for  further  guidance.  Yes, 
certainly  the  Aleman  lived  near  by.  You  took  three  turns  to  the  right,  and 
two  to  the  left,  and - 

"We'd  better  follow  our  noses,"  I  said  to  Ginger  when  we  had  thanked 
our  informants. 

We  came  to  an  old  fifteen-foot  cabin  cruiser,  sans  bottom,  lying  on  a  mud 
bank;  the  engine  sat  forlornly  to  one  side.  Further  on  there  was  a  landing 
made  from  a  flattened  palm  bole,  with  several  dugouts  drawn  up  near  by. 
Behind  the  beach  there  was  a  large,  thatched  house  and  many  outbuildings. 
Everything  looked  neat  and  in  exceptionally  good  order,  and  I  suggested 
that  we  might  be  able  to  learn  the  German's  whereabouts  from  these  peo¬ 
ple.  But  Ginger  believed  that  this  might  be  his  establishment. 

"Why,  it  isn't  anything  like  the  place  described  to  us,"  I  objected. 
"What  makes  you  think  so?" 

"Because  the  thatching  is  trimmed  even  at  the  lower  edges.  Did  you 
ever  see  a  native's  house  with  a  trimmed  thatch?" 

As  a  matter  of  fact  I  never  had,  but  this  was  far  from  the  sort  of  place 
I  had  been  led  to  expect.  Then  we  saw  a  man  and  a  woman  strolling  down 
the  palm-lined  path  towards  the  beach.  We  pulled  in  at  the  landing.  It 


345 


Holiday  in  the  Cerrado 

wouldn't  do  any  harm  to  wait  and  inquire  the  way  from  them.  As  they  came 
nearer  we  saw  that  they  were  dressed  in  native  clothes.  The  woman  was 
barefoot,  her  thick,  blue-black  hair  bound  round  her  head  in  a  coronet.  She 
was  handsome  and  well-groomed,  but  indisputably  a  native.  The  tall  thin 
man  at  her  side,  clad  in  home-made  blue  jeans,  was  also  dark;  his  skin  was 
a  shade  less  swarthy  perhaps,  but  this  in  itself  was  not  unusual,  since  the 
native  complexion  varies  from  black  to  pale  cream. 

We  exchanged  greetings  in  Spanish.  The  man  cocked  his  head  to  one 
side,  surveying  us  with  a  quizzical  expression  for  a  moment  or  two,  before 
he  said  in  excellent  English,  ‘‘Hello,  Vagabonds,  it  seems  to  me  you  ought 
to  be  able  to  speak  English."  We  looked  at  him,  speechless.  Then  we 
laughed  and  he  laughed.  "Come  ashore,"  he  invited,  "you  look  hot  and 
tired." 

We  introduced  ourselves.  He  had  heard  of  us  through  the  natives,  he 
said.  His  name  was  Sebastiano,  and  he  presented  his  wife,  Elena.  Just  who 
he  was,  we  were  not  certain,  but  he  evidently  was  not  the  El  Senor  Aleman 
that  we  had  started  out  to  find.  Since  it  seemed  less  than  tactful  to  bombard 
him  with  questions  about  some  one  else  the  moment  we  arrived,  we  post¬ 
poned  inquiries  about  the  German  for  the  time  being. 

Our  host  directed  us  to  a  tin  sink  with  faucets,  where  wre  washed  our¬ 
selves,  then  seated  us  in  comfortable  chairs  made  from  saplings  and  woven 
rawhide  on  the  wide  veranda.  His  wife  appeared  with  big  glasses  of  cool 
lemonade. 

Sebastiano  appeared  to  be  perhaps  forty-five;  his  manners  were  attractive 
and  he  was  obviously  a  gentleman.  Since  lie  seemed  interested  in  our  jour¬ 
ney,  we  told  him  something  of  its  adventures;  and  how  much  wre  had  grown 
to  like  Mexico.  He  also  loved  it,  he  said;  and  had  made  his  home  in  Mexico 
since  leaving  Germany.  So  he  was  El  Senor *  Aleman.  Somehow  we  had 
pictured  the  elusive  German  as  being  big  and  blond. 

We  stayed  with  Sebastiano  and  Elena  for  two  wreeks;  but  we  never 
learnt  the  story — if  there  wras  a  story — of  why  he  had  come  to  this  far 
country  to  lose  himself  among  the  lagoons  of  Chiapas.  He  had  certainly 
picked  an  ideal  spot  and  he  had  made  the  most  of  it.  His  home  was  built 
on  a  narrow  arm  of  land  wdth  the  ocean  and  the  lagoon  on  the  east  and  west, 
the  jungle  on  the  north  and  south. 

The  main  building  was  two  hundred  feet  in  length  (little  wonder  that 
it  had  seemed  immense  to  the  natives),  and  was  divided  into  two  parts  by 
a  wide  corridor.  One  half  of  the  house  Sebastiano  retained  for  his  own  use. 
In  this  enormous  room,  he  kept  his  books  and  personal  belongings;  it  was 
furnished  with  a  big  table,  a  desk,  two  beds  of  woven  rawhide  on  frames, 
and  chairs;  and  in  addition  it  contained  an  altar  and  a  much  prized  hand- 
cranked  sewing  machine.  The  other  side  of  the  house  was  partitioned  off 
by  cloth  screens  into  four  small  guest  rooms;  these  were  furnished  with  a 
few  shelves,  chairs,  and  beds  of  w  oven  rawhide.  I  he  floors  were  made  of 


846  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

hand-hewn  planks;  and  the  sides  of  the  house  were  partially  boarded  to  a 
height  of  eight  feet;  above  the  boards*  the  walls  were  of  lattice  work  to 
insure  ventilation.  Everything  was  in  spotless  order. 

The  kitchen  and  dining  room,  in  a  separate  building,  were  equipped 
with  several  stoves,  one  for  the  making  of  tortillas  only,  and  a  round  mud 
oven,  about  four  feet  high.  The  entire  establishment  was  a  unique  combina¬ 
tion  of  native  tools  and  methods  and  European  ingenuity.  There  were  many 
labour-saving  devices,  also  comfortable  worktables,  shelves,  screened  cool¬ 
ers,  a  sink  with  running  water,  and  a  big  dining  table  and  benches. 

The  water  was  supplied  from  a  deep,  rocked-in  well  equipped  with  a 
hand  winch  for  bringing  up  the  buckets.  Above  the  well  was  a  large  tank, 
which  Sebastiano  filled  with  water  every  morning  with  the  aid  of  a  hand 
pump.  This  tank  provided  the  running  water  for  the  house  and  the  kitchen. 
Near  the  well,  there  was  a  small  outbuilding  containing  a  shower  bath  and 
a  wooden  laundry  tub. 

With  German  thoroughness  Sebastiano  had  constructed  another  building 
which  was  sometimes  used  as  a  guest  house,  but  whose  real  purpose  was 
to  provide  them  with  shelter  in  the  event  that  the  big  house  should  burn, 
or  be  shaken  down  by  an  earthquake.  He  also  had  a  fine  workshop  with 
a  forge,  a  lathe,  many  tools,  and  other  equipment. 

He  had  by  no  means  "'gone  native/'  even  though  he  had  married  a 
native  woman  and  in  all  probability  had  no  contacts  with  Europeans  from 
one  year  to  the  next.  He  was  clean  shaven,  and  dressed  himself  in  fresh 
clothes  each  afternoon.  During  the  cooler  part  of  the  day  he  was  busy. 
Round  noon  he  took  a  short  siesta. 

He  had  a  few  cattle,  and  owned  a  salt  works,  worked  by  his  wife's 
brother.  There  was  a  well-kept  vegetable  garden,  sufficient  for  their  own 
use,  and  a  fine  grove  of  coco-nut  palms  and  banana  trees.  He  said  the 
near-by  jungle  was  full  of  game,  and  the  lagoon  of  fish.  A  few  miles  away, 
on  the  same  lagoon,  at  the  village  of  Las  Palmas,  supplies  not  produced  on 
his  own  place  could  be  obtained  in  exchange  for  salt,  coco-nuts,  and  cattle. 
Sebastiano  had  certainly  chosen  well. 

During  our  stay  here  we  took  advantage  of  the  place's  facilities  to  put 
our  badly  damaged  equipment  in  shape.  Sebastiano  helped  me  paint  and 
repair  the  canoe.  He  also  went  with  me  to  Las  Palmas  to  have  our  papers 
signed. 

Elena,  who  was  a  wonderful  cook,  taught  Ginger  many  of  her  famed 
recipes  and  Ginger  in  return  gave  her  some  “helpful  household  hints.'' 
One  thing  I  remember  with  amusement  was  Ginger's  attempt  to  instruct 
Elena  in  the  rudiments  of  geography.  “The  world  is  round,''  said  Ginger. 
Elena  was  polite,  but  dubious;  and  intimated  that  such  an  equivocal  state¬ 
ment  should  be  backed  up  by  proof.  So  Ginger  made  some  drawings  of  a 
sphere.  These  left  Elena  unmoved.  All  the  evidence  pointed  to  the  fact 
that  it  was  flat,  she  said. 


347 


Holiday  in  the  Cerrado 

When  Ginger  told  Sebastiano  of  the  incident  he  shrugged  and  laughed. 
"Ach,"  he  said,  “I  have  tried  many  times  and  it  is  hopeless,  but  perhaps 
it  is  just  as  well.  Elena  knows  the  things  that  are  necessary  to  make  her  a 
good  and  happy  woman;  for  her  it  is  enough.  I  doubt  if  our  kind  of  knowl¬ 
edge  would  be  of  any  use  to  her.  I  no  longer  try  to  change  her  views.  For 
intellectual  companionship  I  have  my  books/' 

As  the  time  neared  for  us  to  leave,  Sebastiano  tried  to  dissuade  us.  He 
was  childless,  and  there  was  no  one  to  inherit  his  possessions.  Why  not 
remain?  We  could  all  be  happy,  and  there  was  enough  for  evervone. 
Eventually,  all  that  he  had  would  be  ours.  We  regretfully  refused,  for  we 
had  set  our  minds  on  going  to  Panama. 

But  it  was  easier  to  make  the  decision  to  leave  than  to  execute  it.  Day 
after  day  we  tried  without  success  to  go  through  the  breakers.  Everything 
seemed  against  us.  A  storm  blew  up.  The  change  of  the  moon  came,  and 
the  ground  swells  were  huge.  Then  the  tides  were  wrong.  We  wanted  to 
reach  Champerico,  Guatemala,  in  one  day's  jump  by  taking  off  at  daylight. 
Eventually  we  decided  to  leave  at  low  tide  no  matter  what  the  hour.  Each 
day  the  weather  permitted  we  took  the  canoe  out  to  the  breaker  line;  and 
each  day  we  would  spill,  come  back,  unload,  and  wait  for  the  next  day. 

The  day  before  my  birthday  we  packed  up  as  usual  and  went  out  into  the 
surf.  The  breakers  were  high,  but  we  hoped  to  get  out  during  the  calm 
spell.  We  were  riding  close  to  the  beach,  gradually  edging  out  into  the 
foaming  water,  while  we  waited  for  the  opportunity  to  get  through.  Sebasti¬ 
ano  was  in  swimming.  He  had  taken  hold  of  the  canoe’s  stern,  preparatory 
to  shoving  us  off.  Suddenly  he  was  torn  loose.  Ginger  looked  back  and  saw 
him  swimming  inshore.  Again  we  focussed  our  attention  seaward,  watching 
the  breakers.  Then  we  saw  Sebastiano  sweep  past  us,  carried  out  by  the 
rip  tide,  his  face  white  and  strained.  We  worked  the  canoe  over  to  him 
and  he  clutched  at  its  slippery  side,  but  there  was  no  place  for  him  to  take 
hold;  and  before  we  could  throw  him  a  rope,  a  descending  sea  washed 
him  away.  Again  we  paddled  out  to  him.  This  time,  he  grabbed  my  paddle, 
and  in  so  doing  swung  the  canoe  round  broadside  to  a  crashing  sea;  the 
paddle  was  jerked  loose  from  his  hand  by  the  breaker  that  hurled  the 
Vagabunda  shoreward.  By  what  miracle  the  boat  failed  to  capsize,  spilling 
us  both  into  the  rip  tide,  I  will  never  know. 

After  what  seemed  an  infinity,  we  straightened  out  the  canoe,  and  again 
started  towards  him.  He  was  almost  exhausted.  For  ten  minutes  we  fought 
to  reach  each  other,  and  each  time  that  we  seemed  on  the  verge  of  success, 
we'd  lose  him.  His  stamina  and  nerve  in  the  face  of  death  were  wonderful; 
his  presence  of  mind  never  failed  him.  At  last  we  got  him  round  to  the 
stern,  where  he  had  some  protection  against  the  swirling  waters,  and 
headed  for  shore  as  fast  as  we  could.  Twice  again  the  breakers  washed  him 


348  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

off  before  we  made  the  beach.  His  only  comment,  as  he  staggered  shore- 
wards  through  the  shallow  water,  was  a  beautifully  guttural  “Ach!" 

But  Elena,  who  had  been  having  hysterics  on  the  beach  all  this  while, 
made  up  for  Sebastiano’s  lack  of  emotional  display;  she  alternately  hugged 
and  kissed  all  three  of  us.  " Gracias  a  Dios!  Maria  Santissima”  she  ex¬ 
claimed  over  and  over.  Her  thanks  to  heaven  were  quickly  followed  by 
“Voy  hacer  una  fiesta.”  ("I  am  going  to  have  a  fiesta.”) 

The  wind  had  increased  and,  needless  to  say,  we  had  lost  all  desire  for 
any  more  travelling  that  day.  So  we  followed  Elena  and  Sebastiano  back 
to  the  house,  where  Elena  went  to  work  at  once  on  her  preparations  for  a 
fiesta.  Her  party  was  to  serve  two  purposes,  she  said:  the  first,  to  celebrate 
Sebastiano's  escape;  the  other,  my  birthday.  She  immediately  dispatched 
her  brother  to  Las  Palmas  for  supplies,  and  to  invite  the  populace.  Gallons 
of  corn  for  the  making  of  tortillas  and  tamales  were  put  on  to  boil. 

At  3  a.m.  the  next  morning  Elena,  her  sister-in-law,  Consuelo,  and 
Ginger  began  the  business  of  grinding  corn  on  the  inetate  into  masa  for  the 
tamales. 

These  tamales  were  not  like  the  so-called  tamale  with  which  Americans 
regale  themselves.  The  American  version  is  made  with  corn  meal — ground 
dried  corn.  The  Mexican  tamale  is  prepared  from  corn  that  has  first  been 
boiled  in  strong  lye  water  to  remove  the  husks,  and  ground  while  moist; 
this  is  called  masa ,  and  is  different  both  in  texture  and  flavour  from  corn  meal. 
Tamales,  made  as  the  Mexicans  make  them,  require  time  and  skill,  and  are 
not  a  common  article  of  diet,  but  are  served  to  celebrate  extraordinary  oc¬ 
casions. 

While  the  masa  was  being  ground,  Elena  went  to  work  on  the  tamale 
filling,  which  she  prepared  from  finely  chopped  meat,  cloves,  garlic,  chilis 
and  marjoram,  boiled  and  thickened  with  a  little  masa.  Then  the  rest  of  the 
ground  masa  was  mixed  with  turtle  oil  and  made  into  a  soft  dough.  The 
women  placed  a  handful  of  this  dough  on  a  banana  leaf  held  in  their  left 
hand  and  pressed  it  with  their  right  hand  into  a  flattened  ball,  with  a  de¬ 
pression  in  its  centre  for  the  filling.  The  banana  leaf  was  then  rolled  length¬ 
wise  (like  a  jelly  roll)  and  the  ends  turned  back.  The  finished  tamales  were 
placed,  folded  side  down,  in  huge  ollas,  and  these  in  turn  were  set  on 
tripods  of  rocks,  with  a  small  fire  underneath  each  one,  to  steam  slowly 
for  hours. 

By  the  time  the  tamales  were  finished,  several  women  arrived  from  Las 
Palmas  and  set  to  work  making  a  punch  called  mistela.  Into  a  large  olla  they 
poured  a  powerful  native  liquor  made  from  sugar  cane;  to  this  they  added  a 
syrup  made  from  panela ,  a  very  strong  cinnamon  tea,  and  anise  flavouring. 
The  result  was  good — and  potent. 

These  details  I  learnt  from  Ginger,  who  volunteered  the  further  infor¬ 
mation  that  as  the  women  compounded  the  brew,  Elena  frequently  sampled 


349 


Holiday  in  the  Cerrado 

it,  and  long  before  the  party  officially  opened  she  had  gotten  off  to  a  flying 
start.  Elena  was  a  big  woman,  full  of  fun  and  vitality. 

While  the  women  were  engaged  in  the  kitchen,  we  were  busy  in  the 
yard.  Water  was  sprinkled  over  the  ground  to  lay  the  dust.  Benches  were 
brought  out;  and  bunches  of  bananas  hung  up  within  easy  reach.  Quantities 
of  drinking  coco-nuts  were  cut  down,  and  piled  beside  a  cutting  block, 
with  a  machete  near-by  for  the  convenience  of  the  thirsty. 

In  the  afternoon  boatloads  of  people  began  arriving  from  Las  Palmas 
and  neighbouring  ranchitos.  They  laughed,  chatted,  and  felicitated  me. 
Was  it  not  my  birthday — my  Dia  de  Sa?ito ? 

Suddenly  a  shout  went  up — “Ta  viene!  Ta  viene!9 '  Everybody  ran  down 
to  the  shore.  “ Ta  viene  la  marimba l — Here  comes  the  marimba!”  A  big 
dugout  poled  to  the  landing.  A  dozen  pairs  of  hands  carefully  brought  the 
big  wooden  instrument  ashore.  No  fiesta  in  this  part  of  Mexico  would  be 
complete  without  this  one-piece,  four-man  orchestra.  When  it  had  been 
set  up  in  the  corridor  of  the  house  the  musicians  struck  up  a  lively  tune 
and  everyone  shouted,  “ Viva  Danielito!  Viva  Sebastiano!” 

While  this  was  going  on,  Elena  took  Ginger  to  the  big  house,  where 
they  arranged  the  altar.  “ Quando  viene  el  Santo,"  Elena  kept  saying.  ( “Wait 
until  the  Saint  comes.”)  She  laughed  mysteriously  when  Ginger  ques¬ 
tioned  her.  “Wait  and  see,”  she  said.  On  a  table  beside  the  altar  she  laid 
out  many  tall,  home-made  candles,  and  placed  beside  them  a  box  of  long, 
thin,  hand-made  cigarettes. 

It  was  now  dusk.  The  women’s  household  tasks  finished,  they  dressed 
themselves  in  their  fiesta  clothes  and  joined  the  party.  There  were  at  least 
a  hundred  people  present;  and  never  have  I  seen  such  a  display  of  joyous, 
carefree  spirit.  Suddenly  a  shout  went  up  from  the  strollers  nearest  the 
beach.  “ Ta  viene !  Ta  viene!"  Elena  gathered  the  women  together,  and  to 
each  of  them  she  gave  a  candle.  We  all  hurried  down  to  the  water. 

There,  I  saw  one  of  the  prettiest  sights  I  can  remember.  Five  canoes, 
filled  with  natives  holding  lighted  candles,  floated  silently  down  the  palm- 
lined  lagoon.  Then  the  occupants  of  the  canoes  began  to  sing  a  haunting, 
minor  melody  and  the  crowd  on  shore  quieted.  Now  the  boats  drew  nearer. 
We  could  see  that  the  largest  canoe,  flanked  on  either  side  by  two  small 
canoes,  was  the  most  brilliantly  illuminated.  The  candles  seemed  to  sur¬ 
round  some  object  amidship. 

A  profound  hush  fell  over  the  crowd  as  the  canoes  approached  the  land¬ 
ing,  their  crews  still  singing  in  muted  voices.  “Ah,  ah,”  the  waiting  people 
breathed,  “ El  Santo."  A  glass  box,  wreathed  in  flowers,  was  carefully  and 
reverently  handed  ashore;  it  contained  a  picture.  Then  the  women,  holding 
lighted  candles  high  above  their  heads,  formed  a  procession  behind  it.  It 
was  a  never-to-be-forgotten  sight — those  graceful,  barefoot  women  walking 
like  queens  behind  their  Santo,  their  full  skirts  swaying,  their  brown  faces 
illuminated  by  the  flickering  candlelight. 


950  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

The  men  took  no  part  in  the  procession,  nor  did  they  enter  the  house, 
where  the  Santo  was  placed  before  the  altar.  Ginger,  of  course,  was  in  the 
procession;  and  from  her  I  learnt  what  took  place  there. 

The  Santo,  she  said,  was  called  the  Coraton  de  Jesus  (Heart  of  Jesus) 
and  was  intended  to  typify  on  this  occasion  the  ” brave  hearts”  ofSebastiano 
and  the  rescue  party.  After  it  had  been  placed  before  the  altar,  the  candles 
were  blown  out;  and  Elena  passed  around  the  cigarettes.  While  the  women 
sat  and  smoked  in  silence,  the  marimba  played  a  chantlike  melody.  Then 
tiny  jicaras  containing  a  few  drops  of  the  mistela  were  handed  about.  The 
women  sipped  the  drinks,  finished  the  cigarettes,  and  rejoined  the  men. 
With  that,  Elena  announced,  the  fiesta  was  officially  opened. 

Now  the  marimba  swung  into  a  faster  beat,  and  dancing  became  general. 
Ginger  and  I  stood  on  the  side  lines  for  a  few  minutes,  watching.  Pictur¬ 
esque  is  an  overworked  word,  but  it  was  never  used  with  more  justification 
than  to  describe  the  scene  before  us.  The  fire  lit  the  dark  foliage  and  the 
dancing  figures.  From  time  to  time,  her  white  teeth  gleaming,  her  full 
skirts  swirling,  some  girl  overcome  with  the  intoxication  of  the  music 
would  break  away  from  her  partner's  arms  in  a  breath-taking  solo.  And 
above  the  indescribable  lilt  of  the  marimba,  we  could  hear  the  boom  of  the 
surf. 

By  eleven  o'clock  everyone  was  hilarious  and  Elena  decided  that  it  was 
time  to  serve  supper.  Banana  leaves  were  cut  into  squares  for  use  as  plates; 
and  on  these  were  placed  the  delicious  tamales,  fried  rice,  fried  beans, 
baked  plantains,  and  other  foods.  We  ate  in  the  kitchen  with  Sebastiano 
and  a  few  of  his  personal  friends,  sharing  a  bottle  of  liquor  he  had  saved 
for  his  own  consumption,  and  for  his  supper  guests. 

Round  four  in  the  morning  Sebastiano,  Ginger,  and  I  decided  we  could 
do  with  some  sleep;  it  had  been  twenty-five  hours  since  we  had  last  been 
to  bed.  Ginger  and  I  turned  into  the  canoe — just  in  case  some  playful  native 
should  decide  to  launch  it.  But  with  people  coming  and  going,  it  was  diffi¬ 
cult  to  sleep,  and  at  seven  o'clock  we  went  back  to  the  house.  The  party 
was  still  going  strong;  thirty  or  more  of  the  hardier  guests  remained. 
Elena,  who  had  been  up  and  busy  since  three  o'clock  the  preceding  day, 
was  still  the  liveliest  and  gayest  of  the  lot. 

Finally  just  the  four  of  us  were  left.  During  breakfast  we  congratulated 
Elena  on  her  party,  and  invited  a  good,  old-fashioned  razzing.  Said  Elena, 
"Frail  people,  these  gringos.  A  few  drinks,  a  little  dancing,  and  they  are 
finished — they  must  sleep.  Of  what  use  is  it  to  give  them  a  party?  They 
will  not  be  there  to  enjoy  it.”  She  thoroughly  enjoyed  herself  teasing  us. 
And  not  until  siesta  time  did  she  stop  cleaning  and  restoring  the  house  to 
order;  then  she  slept  for  several  hours.  What  a  woman!  She  was  middle- 
aged,  and  we  could  only  wonder  what  she  must  have  been  like  at  twenty. 
We  asked  Sebastiano,  who  just  smiled  reminiscently.  Elena  had  been  a 
fine  girl,  he  said. 


351 


Holiday  in  the  Cerrado 

The  following  day  we  took  the  canoe  over  to  the  lagoon  side,  and 
loaded  it,  preparatory  to  sailing  down  to  Soconusco  Bar,  two  miles  south. 
It  seemed  barely  possible  that  we  might  have  better  luck  getting  out  the 
bar  than  we  had  had  trying  to  go  through  the  breakers  on  the  open  ocean. 

Sebastiano  and  Elena  stood  on  the  beach  and  waved  good-bye.  We  left 
them  as  we  had  first  seen  them — standing  together  under  the  palms.  Not 
only  because  we  were  parting  from  friends  were  we  heavy-hearted — we 
were  leaving  Mexico  as  well.  We  had  long  since  overstayed  our  leave. 
Two  gay,  colourful,  exciting  and  adventurous  years  had  slipped  by;  and 
now  that  they  were  gone,  how  short  they  seemed!  Mexico  had  become 
another  homeland,  and  some  day  we  hoped  to  return  to  its  warm,  friendly, 
and  hospitable  people. 

“ Adios,  amigos ,  qne  le  vaya  bien.  Viva  Mexico!** 


Chapter  Twenty-five 

GUATEMALA  TO  COSTA  RICA 


The  port  of  Champerico  is  a  roadstead:  it  has  no  protected  harbour. 

Boats  wishing  to  take  on  or  discharge  cargo  at  this  port  must  anchor 
off  the  end  of  a  heavy  pier  built  out  into  the  ocean,  well  beyond  the  breaker 
line.  Lighters  ferry  the  cargo  between  the  ships  and  the  pier,  where  it  is 
transferred  to  and  from  the  lighters  by  travelling  cranes. 

A  small  freighter  was  anchored  off  the  port  when  we  arrived.  We  circled 
round  the  vessel,  the  Salvador ,  one  of  the  British-owned  Pacific  Steam 
Navigation  Company’s  boats.  Its  crew  waved  to  us,  and  we  returned  their 
gay  greetings.  Later  on  the  presence  of  the  Salvador  turned  out  to  be  a 
piece  of  real  luck  for  us. 

We  paddled  over  to  the  pier,  more  than  a  little  anxious  about  our  re¬ 
ception.  With  the  exception  of  our  Seaman’s  Protection  Certificates,  we 
had  no  papers  for  Guatemala  or  for  any  of  the  countries  south  of  Mexico. 
We  hoisted  a  “protest"  flag,  a  white  rag  on  the  end  of  the  harpoon  shaft 
stuck  in  the  mast  seat.  According  to  maritime  law,  a  ship  in  need  of  supplies, 
or  repairs,  may  by  hoisting  a  “protest"  flag,  enter  any  port  without  the 
payment  of  port  charges.  However,  when  a  ship  does  enter  under  “protest," 
the  decision  as  to  what  shall  be  done  with  the  vessel  rests  with  the  Port 
Captain.  Though  he  cannot  refuse  a  ship  water,  food,  or  emergency  repairs, 
he  can  refuse  to  permit  the  crew  to  go  ashore. 

We  pulled  up  beside  a  lighter  unloading  cargo  and  informed  the  super¬ 
intendent  of  the  pier  that  we  wished  to  speak  to  the  Port  Captain.  After 
an  hour’s  wait,  a  delegation  of  officials  arrived.  The  two  dozen  soldiers 
who  were  guarding  the  pier  snapped  to  attention.  The  officials  began 
shouting  to  us,  but  we  were  unable  to  understand  them  because  of  the 
roar  of  the  ground  swells  that  churned  about  the  pilings.  The  Port  Captain 
finally  grew  tired  of  shouting.  A  crane  swung  over  our  heads  which 
lowered  him  down  to  the  lighter  in  a  passenger  chair.  All  passengers  em¬ 
barking  or  disembarking  at  Champerico  must  use  the  chair  to  gain  the 
pier  or  the  lighter.  He  stumbled  his  way  across  the  lighter  and  glared  at 
us.  “What  is  it  that  you  want?"  he  demanded. 

“We  wish  to  enter  your  port,"  I  answered  politely. 

“You  have  papers?" 

“Of  course,  Senor  Capitan ,"  I  replied,  handing  him  the  papers  we  had 
used  when  travelling  down  the  coast  of  Mexico.  Actually,  these  papers 


353 


Guatemala  to  Costa  Rica 

weren't  worth  anything  in  Guatemala  except  as  identification,  still  you 
never  could  tell.  Many  of  the  port  officials  who  had  been  unable  to  read 
had  nevertheless  been  highly  impressed  by  the  official  seals  and  stamps 
on  the  documents.  This  fellow  could  read,  however,  and  he  read  every 
word  of  every  paper.  When  he  had  finished,  without  further  speech,  he 
walked  to  his  travelling  chair,  climbed  in,  and  was  hoisted  up  to  the  pier. 

Ginger  gave  me  a  sickly  grin.  “Now  we  are  stuck.  That  fellow's  taken 
all  our  papers." 

The  boom  swung  out  and  the  chair  was  lowered  again,  this  time  with 
two  uniformed  guards  as  passengers.  They  came  over  and  one  of  them 
started  to  step  into  the  canoe.  “Wait  a  minute,"  I  protested.  “What's  the 
idea?" 

“You  two,"  he  said  brusquely,  “are  to  go  up  on  the  pier.  I  am  detailed 
to  guard  your  boat." 

We  climbed  into  the  chair  and  were  hoisted  up  on  the  pier.  The  guard 
untied  the  Vagabunda  and  started  paddling  toward  one  of  the  lighters. 
When  we  stepped  out  of  the  chair,  two  guards  ranged  themselves  on  each 
side  of  us,  informing  us  that  we  were  under  arrest.  The  Captain  and  his 
friends  had  departed. 

One  of  the  guards  tugged  at  our  shore  clothes  bag,  which  Ginger  held 
firmly  clasped  under  one  arm.  “What  have  you  there?"  he  growled.  Ginger 
meekly  explained.  “I  must  see  them,"  he  insisted.  To  her  great  embarrass¬ 
ment  he  drew  out  every  single  item  of  her  clothing  and  mine,  and  subjected 
each  piece  to  the  closest  scrutiny.  Luckily,  we  had  left  our  cigarette  lighters 
in  the  canoe,  for  they  are  contraband  in  Guatemala,  where  matches  are  a 
government  monopoly.  After  considerable  persuasion  on  our  part,  and 
stubborn  resistance  on  theirs,  we  were  finally  allowed  to  seclude  ourselves 
for  a  few  minutes  in  a  small  room  to  one  side  of  the  pier,  where  we  changed 
into  our  shore  clothes. 

We  waited  on  that  pier  all  day.  No  one  except  the  guards  and  the  fore¬ 
man  of  the  pier  came  near  us.  Pedro  Jauriqui,  the  foreman,  seemed  to  be 
the  only  friend  we  had  in  the  whole  of  Guatemala;  he  divided  his  lunch  with 
us,  and  found  a  Guatemalan  magazine  for  us  to  read.  About  three  o'clock  I 
got  “riled,"  and  demanded  to  see  the  Port  Captain.  A  guard,  dispatched  to 
his  office,  soon  returned  with  the  good  news  that  the  Captain  was  asleep. 
He  pointed  out  that  of  course  it  was  out  of  the  question  to  disturb  His 
Excellency's  siesta,  because  of  two  forgotten  gringos  cooking  in  the  Guate¬ 
malan  sun. 

About  five  o'clock  things  began  to  pick  up  a  bit.  An  officer  made  two 
trips  to  the  Salvador  and  back.  When  he  returned  from  the  second  trip,  he 
stopped  by  the  lighter  and  took  the  canoe  in  tow.  The  poor  guard,  who 
had  been  assigned  to  watch  it,  had  also  been  allowed  to  simmer  in  the  hot 
sun  all  day;  but  he  wore  a  broad  grin  as  the  canoe  was  pulled  up  alongside 
of  the  lighter  below  the  pier. 


354  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

To  our  unspeakable  delight  the  lieutenant  in  charge  informed  us  that 
the  captain  of  the  Salvador  had  asked  the  Port  Captain’s  permission,  which 
had  been  granted,  to  take  us  aboard  his  ship  for  the  night.  We  were  as 
pleased  as  children  as  we  paddled  the  Vagabunda  towards  the  freighter, 
whose  crew  received  us  with  open  arms. 

The  officers  and  crew  of  the  Salvador  were  a  noteworthy  exception  to 
many  crews  aboard  small  boats.  An  air  of  amiability  and  friendliness  from 
the  Captain  down  pervaded  the  ship;  it  was  apparent  that  they  liked  each 
other  and  their  jobs.  Smart,  clean-cut  young  Britishers,  they  did  their 
work  efficiently,  and  without  friction.  The  Salvador  was  a  combined  pas¬ 
senger  and  cargo  boat,  touching  at  all  the  Central  American  ports  between 
Cristobal,  C.Z.,  and  Champerico.  She  was  a  trim  little  craft  with  all  her 
paint  work  clean  and  her  bright  work  polished. 

Everyone  took  a  great  interest  in  our  trip  and  in  the  canoe,  and  sug¬ 
gested  that  the  Vagabunda  be  hoisted  aboard  for  a  closer  inspection.  When 
they  saw  the  condition  of  the  little  craft — for  we  had  had  some  tough  sailing 
after  leaving  Sebastiano’s — the  whole  gang  immediately  set  to  work  re¬ 
pairing  and  painting  her.  Two  coats  of  quick-drying  paint  that  night,  and 
one  the  following  morning,  did  wonders  for  her  weatherbeaten  canvas. 

Well-fed,  rested,  and  with  our  morale  miraculously  restored,  we  paddled 
back  to  the  pier  the  following  morning.  There  we  found  that  the  Grace 
Line  representative,  Mr.  F.  C.  B.  Close,  had  also  come  to  our  rescue,  and 
that  we  were  to  be  allowed  to  go  ashore  and  see  the  Port  Captain.  Since 
the  Grace  Line  owns  most  of  Champerico,  Mr.  Close’s  word  carried  weight 
with  the  Guatemalan  officials.  We  had  no  idea  as  to  what  lay  in  store  for 
us  as  we  followed  a  uniformed  guard,  lugging  a  gun  several  sizes  too  big 
for  him,  to  the  Captain’s  office.  The  Captain  greeted  us  cordially,  and 
invited  us  into  the  living  quarters  adjacent  to  his  office.  After  presenting 
his  wife,  official  formalities  were  dropped,  and  for  the  duration  of  our  stay 
in  Champerico  we  were  treated  with  courtesy  by  the  authorities. 

The  Captain  explained  the  reason  for  our  cool  reception.  It  seems  that 
most  of  the  people  who  start  out  to  see  the  world  in  small  boats,  and  to 
live  the  life  of  Riley  in  the  tropics,  manage  to  run  out  of  money  and  every¬ 
thing  else  by  the  time  they  hit  the  Central  American  ports.  A  few  days 
before  our  arrival,  a  small  ship  had  entered  under  “protest,”  and  had  de¬ 
manded  food,  water,  and  even  ice,  which  the  crew  had  no  money  to  pay  for. 
There  are  also  a  number  of  tramps  sailing  along  the  coast,  who  attempt  to 
beg  supplies  at  every  port  they  enter.  Little  wonder  that  the  port  authori¬ 
ties  are  slightly  reluctant  to  welcome  small  boats.  The  Salvador  captain’s 
explanation  that  we  had  money  to  pay  for  anything  we  needed  changed  our 
status  at  once.  When  we  were  ready  to  leave,  we  were  given  a  letter  to 
the  officials  of  San  Jose,  Guatemala. 

San  Jose  is  one  of  the  larger  West  Coast  tourist  ports  where  the  Amer¬ 
ican  tourist  has  the  reputation  of  being  a  sucker.  The  moment  we  went 


Guatemala  to  Costa  Rica 


355 


into  a  restaurant,  prices  were  boosted;  coffee  automatically  became  worth 
ten  cents  a  cup,  and  rolls  five  cents  each;  in  contrast  to  the  regular  price  of 
four  cups  of  coffee  and  all  the  bread  you  want  for  three  cents  gold  (Amer¬ 
ican  money). 

However,  when  one  considers  what  the  natives  have  to  put  up  with 
from  the  tourists,  the  charges  do  not  seem  half  enough.  The  British  Consul's 
wife,  Mrs.  Summerhayes,  told  Ginger  of  a  typical  experience  she  had  with 
a  group  of  travelling  Americans.  She  had  gone  to  market  with  her  Guate¬ 
malan  maid.  The  maid  placed  the  big  market  basket  under  a  tree  beside 
her  mistress,  while  she  went  off  to  buy  meat.  Meanwhile  a  party  of 
American  tourists  came  along  who  were  “doing"  the  market.  They  were 
not  only  rude,  but  unobservant  as  well,  for  Mrs.  Summerhayes  is  tall, 
slender,  and  definitely  English.  The  tourists  stopped  and  looked  at  her. 
“She  looks  fairly  clean,  but  you  never  can  tell,  perhaps  it's  only  on  the 
outside,"  one  of  them  commented.  “Yes,"  agreed  another,  “she  may  be 
dreadfully  dirty  underneath."  All  this  time  they  were  poking  about  among 
the  contents  of  her  market  basket,  with  never  a  “by  your  leave" — no 
doubt  acquiring  material  for  a  club  paper  on  “Life  in  Guatemala."  The 
Consul's  wife  was  so  dumbfounded  that  she  lost  her  voice  and  just  stood 
there.  At  that  moment  the  Grace  Line  factor  came  by,  and  guessing  from 
Mrs.  Summerhayes'  outraged  expression  what  was  happening,  broke 
through  the  ring  of  tourists,  picked  up  the  market  basket,  and  asked  after 
her  health  and  that  of  the  British  Consul.  That  finished  the  snoopers;  they 
melted  away  very  quickly,  but  without  a  word  of  apology.  Imagine  the 
effect  of  such  a  manoeuvre  on  a  Guatemalan  lady,  who  might  quite  as 
easily  have  been  the  victim  of  their  rudeness  as  Mrs.  Summerhayes.  It 
would  take  more  than  the  pronouncement  of  the  head  of  the  United  States 
to  make  her  feel  that  North  Americans  were  “good  neighbours" — or  good 
for  anything! 

Another  incident  was  related  to  us  by  an  American,  who  owns  a  ranch 
some  distance  out  of  San  Jose.  Guatemala  is  his  home  and  he  has  adapted 
himself  to  the  country,  dressing  in  native  costume  when  among  the  natives. 
He  comes  into  town  once  a  week  to  visit  the  Summerhaye’s,  the  Grace  Line 
factor,  and  other  Europeans.  He  always  rides  into  town  wearing  his 
vaquero  dress,  and  changes  later  into  European  clothes.  He  came  in  one  day 
for  his  usual  week-end  while  a  tourist  boat  was  in  port.  A  picturesque 
figure  in  his  vaquero  costume,  he  immediately  attracted  the  attention  of  the 
visitors,  who  gathered  round  him,  and  through  their  interpreter,  asked 
permission  to  take  his  picture.  The  interpreter  spoke  to  the  young  man  in 
Spanish,  who  replied  in  the  same  language,  “»SV,  como  no "  (“Sure,  why 
not").  During  the  business  of  focussing  the  cameras,  posing  the  subject, 
and  so  forth,  the  camera  clickers  talked  among  themselves.  One  woman 
protested  to  another,  why  waste  time  in  taking  a  picture  of  the  dirty 
greaser"?  An  animal  lover  among  them  was  sure  that  he  must  be  cruel 


356  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

to  his  horses,  she  had  “heard  .  .  Some  one  else  was  sure  that  he  wasn't 
too  clean.  (Cleanliness  seems  to  be  a  pathological  obsession  with  the 
tourists — and  their  only  standard  of  virtue.) 

When  the  American  had  had  enough  of  it,  he  spoke  to  the  interpreter, 
who  in  turn  informed  the  crowd  that  the  Guatemalan  cowboy  would  like 
to  borrow  one  of  their  cameras.  A  roar  of  protest  went  up  at  this.  What 
did  he  want  to  borrow  a  camera  for?  The  tanned  young  “cowboy"  grinned 
as  he  answered  his  interrogators  in  good  Americanese,  “Oh,  I'd  just  like 
to  take  a  picture  of  the  biggest  bunch  of  goddamned  fools  I've  ever  seen!" 

In  the  course  of  the  next  few  weeks  we  travelled  down  the  coast  from 
port  to  port  along  the  straight  sand  beaches  of  Guatemala,  El  Salvador, 
and  Nicaragua.  The  breakers  were  huge  and  travelling  was  difficult.  In 
the  ports  we  missed  the  easy  informality  and  cordiality  that  characterized 
life  in  Mexico.  The  smaller  the  country,  the  more  soldiers  were  in  evi¬ 
dence.  All  the  piers  were  patrolled  by  heavily  armed  guards.  In  all  the 
towns  there  were  large  garrisons  of  soldiers,  and  it  was  impossible  to  walk 
along  the  streets  without  seeing  many  of  them.  One  felt  that  martial  law 
was  in  force.  Many  of  the  soldiers  carried  machine  guns  or  automatic 
rifles,  and  their  officers  were  weighted  down  with  heavy  forty-fives.  The 
officials  were  sticklers  for  regulations,  and  exceedingly  suspicious  of  travel¬ 
lers.  In  most  places  the  authorities  were  civil,  but  seldom  cordial. 

En  route  to  Corinto,  Nicaragua,  we  ran  into  a  storm;  the  wind  was 
almost  hurricane  strength,  and  the  canoe  took  an  awful  beating.  By  the 
time  we  reached  Cardon  Channel  outside  Corinto,  she  was  badly  battered 
and  leaking.  Pulling  in  behind  Cardon  Island,  which  forms  one  side  of 
Corinto  harbour,  we  washed  and  changed  into  our  shore  clothes  before 
paddling  on  to  the  dock  at  Corinto.  The  canoe  was  in  bad  shape,  so  we 
hoisted  both  our  “protest"  and  quarantine  flags.  Officers  soon  arrived, 
who  motioned  us  away  from  the  pier.  We  waited  half  an  hour  for  the  Port 
Captain,  who  instructed  us  to  come  round  to  the  landing.  We  pulled  round 
to  the  small  bay  back  of  the  dock,  but  as  we  started  to  land,  the  Captain 
motioned  us  away  from  the  steps. 

Eventually  an  officer  came  down  the  steps,  and  asked  to  see  our  papers. 
After  much  hesitation  and  conferring  among  themselves,  the  port  officials 
finally  decided  that  we  should  be  given  permission  to  land,  although  they 
were  anything  but  enthusiastic. 

American  adventurers  are  no  novelty  in  Corinto.  The  town  was  long 
occupied  by  the  United  States  marines,  and  most  of  the  natives  speak  a  few 
words  of  English.  Americans  seem  to  be  generally  disliked;  and  from  the 
town's  attitude  towards  us  we  might  have  been  poison.  Whether  this  atti¬ 
tude  is  entirely  due  to  contact  with  American  military  forces  is  hard  to  say. 
The  average  native  reminded  us  of  a  stick  of  dynamite,  walking  round 
while  waiting  to  explode. 

We  spent  ten  days  in  Corinto  repairing  the  boat.  At  first  we  were 


351 


Guatemala  to  Costa  Rica 

unable  to  find  a  place  to  stay;  the  Nicaraguans  would  have  none  of  us,  and 
we  camped  on  the  edge  of  the  jungle.  Then  we  passed  by  a  sailboat  under 
construction  on  the  beach;  and  being  interested  in  small  boats,  went  over 
to  look  at  it.  A  big,  rawboned  white  man  was  working  away.  We  intro¬ 
duced  ourselves.  He  was  a  Dane  named  Charley  Neilson,  who  was  engaged 
in  the  boat-building  business.  He  lived  with  his  father  and  one  unmarried 
brother  in  a  wing  of  the  ramshackle  marine  barracks.  When  we  told  him 
about  the  condition  of  the  Vagabunda ,  he  at  once  offered  us  his  tools  and 
such  materials  as  we  needed.  The  old  barracks  was  all  but  uninhabitable, 
so  he  suggested  that  we  use  a  twenty-foot  sloop  that  was  pulled  up  on  the 
beach,  resting  on  stilts. 

We  had  tried  to  purchase  paint  and  other  materials  in  Corinto,  but  they 
were  either  not  to  be  had,  or  we  were  asked  to  pay  about  ten  times  the 
usual  price  for  them.  Consequently  we  were  more  than  glad  to  offer  the 
Neilsons  payment  for  the  things  we  needed,  but  they  would  not  accept 
money.  Then  Ginger  found  that  they  had  been  eating  in  a  restaurant  where 
they  got  nothing  but  corn,  beans,  and  rice.  From  then  on  she  took  charge 
of  the  culinary  arrangements.  Every  day  she  went  to  the  market  for  fresh 
fruits  and  vegetables,  which  she  converted  into  some  of  the  delicious  recipes 
that  she  had  developed  on  the  trail.  The  men  were  delighted. 

At  first  Ginger  had  a  difficult  time  in  the  mercado.  All  the  natives  were 
out  to  skin  the  whites,  and  prices  bounded  sky-high  the  moment  she  ap¬ 
peared.  But  a  big,  fat  woman,  invariably  dressed  in  black  despite  the  heat, 
took  a  liking  to  her,  and  helped  her  out  with  the  buying.  Ginger  would  tell 
her  what  she  wanted,  and  the  woman  would  go  round  to  the  various  vendors, 
haggling  until  she  brought  the  price  down  to  its  customary  level.  But 
on  the  day  the  tourist  boats  appeared  most  of  the  natives  went  down  to 
the  pier  with  their  produce;  and  then  no  one  in  Corinto  could  buy  avocados 
and  other  fruit  except  at  gringo  tourist  prices.  Ginger  went  down  to  the 
dock  on  one  occasion,  hoping  to  buy  some  avocados,  since  none  remained 
in  the  mercado.  There  she  found  the  native  women  that  she  knew  selling 
them  on  the  sidewalk.  She  asked  the  price  of  the  fruit.  They  were  twenty- 
five  centavos  ( ten  cents  gold)  today,  she  was  informed.  "But/’  she  protested, 
“you  sell  them  to  me  every  day  for  three  or  four  centavos.”  Yes,  and  they 
sold  them  to  her  gladly  at  that  price,  the  women  answered;  but  today  the 
tourist  boat  was  in,  and  the  price  was  what  the  tourists  would  pay— 
twenty-five  centavos. 

The  Salvador  came  into  port  while  we  were  in  Corinto,  and  we  had  a 
reunion  with  Captain  Grant  and  the  crew  that  lasted  nearly  all  night.  Then 
the  Port  Captain  decided  that  we  might  be  nice  people,  so  he  gave  a  cock¬ 
tail  party  for  us  at  which  we  met  and  really  got  to  know  the  officials. 
They  stretched  a  point  and  permitted  us  to  stay  in  port  after  the  boat  was 
repaired  until  the  weather  became  calm  enough  to  travel.  The  long  jump 


358  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

from  Corinto  to  San  Juan  del  Sur  worried  us  considerably,  for  the  wind 
and  weather  had  been  consistently  bad  for  days. 

At  last  our  preparations  were  complete.  We  left  at  three  o'clock  one 
afternoon,  hoping  with  luck,  to  arrive  at  our  destination  round  eleven 
o'clock  the  next  day.  If  the  weather  ran  true  to  form  it  would  give  us  an 
all-night  sail  with  a  following  wind.  The  high  wind  generally  died  down  to 
a  stiff  breeze  round  six  or  seven  o’clock  in  the  evening.  We  were  willing 
to  battle  heavy  seas  during  the  late  afternoon  to  gain  additional  headway. 

The  start  was  not  auspicious.  To  save  about  three  miles,  we  took  a  short 
cut  out  of  the  harbour,  going  out  what  is  known  as  False  Channel.  The 
tide  was  going  out  and  the  current  was  strong.  Occasional  whirlpools, 
and  the  breakers  which  extended  almost  completely  across  the  narrow 
channel,  nearly  threw  us  on  the  rocks  several  times. 

We  reached  the  ocean  and  faced  the  heavier  seas  with  a  feeling  of  appre¬ 
hension.  This  section  of  coast,  between  Corinto  and  Cape  Elena  to  the 
south  of  San  Juan  del  Sur,  is  occasionally  visited  by  strong  gales,  known 
locally  as  papagayos.  They  are  similar  to  the  “chubascos"  of  the  Gulf  of 
California,  but  of  longer  duration.  Away  from  the  land,  the  wind  was 
blowing  directly  up  the  coast,  with  very  short,  capping  seas.  We  were 
soon  wet  with  spray,  and  the  cockpit  had  to  be  continually  bailed  out. 
Before  sundown  the  seas  were  so  high  that  it  was  impossible  to  open  the 
cockpit  to  get  at  the  canteens  and  food.  The  salt  spray  made  us  very  thirsty. 

By  sundown  we  had  made  only  eight  miles,  and  the  wind,  instead  of 
decreasing,  was  increasing.  We  debated  the  situation.  Should  we  return 
to  Corinto,  while  we  could  still  see  to  navigate  the  channel;  or  take  a 
chance  on  the  wind  going  down,  as  it  had  every  day  for  the  past  two  weeks? 
We  decided  to  stick  it  out  a  while  longer. 

But  as  the  sun  disappeared,  the  wind  increased  in  fury.  Our  retreat  cut 
off,  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  go  on.  We  were  still  hopeful  that  the 
wind  was  having  one  last  fling  before  settling  down  as  usual.  But  by 
eight  o'clock  it  was  stronger  than  ever.  The  Vagabunda  reeled  under  the 
impact  of  the  pounding  seas;  we  could  feel  her  bottom  spring  each  time  a 
big  wave  smacked  us;  several  times  she  almost  turned  over.  We  took  a 
double  reef  in  the  sail,  and  rigged  life  lines.  Then  to  forestall  being  swept 
away  by  the  furious  seas,  we  lashed  ourselves  down.  Nothing  in  our  long 
battle  with  storms — not  even  the  storm  off  Cape  San  Lucas — had  prepared 
us  for  the  fury  of  this  one.  A  great  wave  would  pick  us  up,  toss  the  canoe 
high  into  the  air,  and  before  she  had  time  to  hit  the  water,  another  sea 
would  come  up  to  meet  her,  with  such  a  tremendous  smack  that  we  could 
feel  her  bottom  buckle.  These  seas  were  so  high  that  we  could  not  see 
the  lighthouse  behind  us. 

At  nine  o'clock  the  wind  was  blowing  a  gale,  and  there  was  nothing  we 
could  do  to  meet  it.  It  was  impossible  to  point  into  the  wind,  because  the 
canoe  would  ride  out  over  the  seas  to  crash  down  with  tremendous  force 


Sketch  Map 

Showing  the  Voyage  of  the  Vagabunda 


Guatemala  to  Costa  Rica 


361 


into  the  trough;  nor  was  it  possible  to  ease  off,  because  seas  hitting  us  on 
the  beam  would  turn  the  boat  over.  Then  great,  black,  monstrous  waves 
began  rolling  in  towards  us.  We  managed  to  get  past  the  first  one  safely, 
but  as  the  second  caught  us,  and  the  canoe  rode  high  on  its  crest,  its  cap 
hit  her  so  hard  that  it  threw  her  into  the  air.  She  smacked  the  water  with 
a  terrific  wallop;  we  could  hear  the  crackle  of  splintering  wood.  A  third 
sea  struck  her;  again  that  ominous  rending  sound. 

To  get  to  shore  while  we  still  had  something  to  ride  on  was  our  only 
purpose  now.  An  attempt  to  turn  towards  the  coast  proved  disastrous; 
the  great  waves  tossed  the  canoe  high  into  the  air;  the  following  seas  hit 
her  on  the  beam.  We  skidded  sideways  and  only  saved  ourselves  from 
capsizing  by  leaning  far  over  on  the  windward  gunwale.  It  took  all  my 
strength  on  the  steering  oar  to  keep  the  canoe  going  straight.  We  couldn't 
even  shape  a  course  that  would  permit  us  to  pile  up  in  the  breakers.  Since 
we  couldn't  sail  against  the  wind,  and  couldn't  run  before  it,  we  had  to 
fight  it  out.  Another  series  of  big  seas  came  along;  and  again  the  canoe 
took  a  beating  to  the  tune  of  splintering  wood.  Then  came  the  most  hair- 
raising  sound  of  all — ripping  canvas.  “There  goes  the  bottom,''  Ginger 
shouted.  “We're  going  to  sink." 

“Stay  with  the  boat,"  I  shouted  back.  “Our  still  cans  will  keep  us 
afloat." 

Another  hissing  roller  struck  the  canoe,  and  part  of  the  gunwale  gave 
way.  The  deck  sagged  and  buckled  under  the  impact  of  the  following  wave. 
Again  we  heard  the  sound  of  splintering  wood  and  ripping  canvas.  The 
V agabunda  was  at  last  done  for — and  so  were  we. 

“Dan!"  Ginger  screamed.  “Look  out!"  I  turned  to  see  a  great,  black 
hull  almost  on  top  of  us;  its  knife-edge  headed  straight  for  the  middle  of 
the  canoe.  High  above  us,  lights  were  swinging  in  an  arc;  and  for  a  moment 
I  thought  they  were  signalling  to  us,  but  the  boat  plunged  steadily  on.  We 
swung  round  in  a  desperate  attempt  to  get  away  from  that  bow.  "the  wind 
struck  the  sail  and  ripped  it  from  the  mast.  Ginger  fought  to  get  the 
whipping  canvas  under  control,  while  I  fought  to  swing  the  water-logged 
canoe  round.  The  irony  of  being  sunk  by  the  one  thing  that  could  save  us, 
I  thought,  as  Ginger  grabbed  a  paddle  and  aided  in  our  frantic  efforts  to 
escape  that  charging  mass  of  steel.  A  wave  curled  over  our  heads,  smother¬ 
ing  us  in  foam;  the  canoe  grated  and  twisted  from  the  impact. 

Then  from  somewhere  above  us,  a  voice  boomed  through  the  scream 
of  the  wind,  “For  Chris'  sake,  quit  playing  tag  and  come  aboard."  A  line 
arched  over  the  Vagabunda  s  battered  deck,  and  a  searchlight  bathed  us 
in  its  ghostly  glare.  I  grabbed  the  line  and  fastened  it  to  the  painter.  W  e 
smacked  against  the  lee  side  of  the  ship,  out  of  the  wind.  A  rope  ladder 
rolled  down  her  side,  and  as  the  canoe  lifted  on  a  wave,  Ginger  grabbed 
the  ladder’s  ropes,  and  scrambled  up  the  side.  Willing  hands  pulled  her 
over  the  rail.  More  ropes  thudded  on  the  canoe  s  deck,  and  I  hurriedly 


362  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

fastened  them  to  the  ring  bolts  on  the  bow  and  stem.  The  canoe  rose  to 
another  swell,  and  then  hung  suspended  in  the  air,  as  a  dozen  men  strained 
on  the  ropes  that  slowly  lifted  her  up  the  side  of  the  ship. 

I  scrambled  up  the  ladder  and  joined  Ginger  on  deck.  She  stamped  her 
wet  feet  on  the  solid  steel.  “How  does  that  feel?” 

"Never  felt  anything  better  in  my  life,”  I  said  with  hearty  emphasis. 

The  crew  surrounded  us,  all  talking  at  once.  Passengers  lined  the 
promenade  decks  above  our  heads.  We  seemed  to  be  in  a  swirling  world 
of  voices.  But  neither  one  of  us  could  say  more  than  a  few  words  in  answer 
to  the  bombardment  of  questions.  Then  an  officer  came  to  our  rescue  and 
took  us  both  by  the  arm.  We  trotted  along  meekly  as  he  escorted  us  to 
first-class  cabin  Number  2.  The  door  closed  behind  us.  Bankrupt  of  energy 
and  resource,  we  stood  there  in  our  dripping  clothes,  looking  at  each  other. 
A  steward  entered  with  dry  clothes,  and  a  stiff  drink  of  whisky  apiece.  He 
asked  if  we  were  hungry.  We  had  both  been  ravenous  round  seven  o'clock, 
but  now  the  thought  of  food  was  nauseating;  we  shook  our  heads.  He 
suggested  tea.  Ginger  nodded  vaguely.  But  we  were  sufficiently  revived 
by  the  whisky,  a  hot  shower,  and  clean  clothes  to  enjoy  the  tea  and 
sandwiches  when  they  arrived. 

After  the  meal  we  felt  like  new  people.  Our  rapid  recovery  surprised  us 
both,  for  it  was  not  usual.  It  had  often  taken  us  days  to  overcome  entirely 
the  effects  of  some  near-catastrophe.  The  difference  this  time  was  that  we 
were  not  alone  in  some  God-forsaken  wilderness  trying  to  pull  ourselves 
together,  but  among  hundreds  of  people.  In  the  midst  of  our  discussion 
there  came  a  rap  on  the  door.  "Captain  wants  to  see  you,”  said  a  voice. 

Up  on  the  bridge  we  were  met  by  a  big,  stern-faced,  broad-shouldered 
man,  who  gruffly  invited  us  to  step  into  his  cabin.  I  was  well  aware  that 
we  had  undoubtedly  been  a  considerable  nuisance  to  the  Captain  of  the 
Mayan ,  but  I  was  hardly  prepared  for  his  unfriendly,  brusque,  accusing 
manner.  "Do  you  know  who  that  is?”  he  demanded,  pointing  to  a  picture 
standing  on  his  desk. 

My  eyes  followed  his  pointing  finger,  and  looked  into  the  smiling 
pictured  face  of  a  sweetheart  of  my  high  school  and  college  days.  "Why 
that's  Marie  Carruthers,”  I  stammered,  so  flabbergasted  I  could  hardly 
talk. 

"No,”  corrected  the  Captain,  "that  is  Marie  Fischer,  my  wife.”  He 
grinned. 

Then  I  remembered.  I  had  heard  that  Marie  had  married  the  first  officer 
of  the  ship  that  had  taken  her  to  New  York  about  the  time  that  Ginger 
and  I  were  preparing  for  our  trip.  The  first  officer  had  evidently  been 
promoted  to  captain.  I  held  out  my  hand  to  meet  Captain  Fischer's  and 
the  three  of  us  stood  smiling  at  each  other. 

"I  have  been  looking  for  you  all  along  the  coast,”  he  said.  "Marie  and 


363 


Guatemala  to  Costa  Rica 

I  make  our  home  in  Panama;  and  every  time  I  return  to  my  home  port, 
Cristbbal,  she  asks  if  I  have  seen  you.  Lucky  we  met  tonight,  wasn’t  it?" 

We  found  out  that  the  meeting  was  not  as  accidental  as  it  had  seemed 
at  first.  The  Mayan  had  put  in  at  Corinto,  where  Captain  Fischer  had 
learnt  of  our  departure  only  a  few  hours  previously.  When  he  put  to  sea, 
he  had  posted  extra  lookouts.  During  the  manoeuvring  of  his  ship,  which 
had  given  us  such  a  scare,  he  had  been  attempting  to  place  the  bow  of  his 
vessel  between  us  and  the  wind,  so  that  he  could  pick  us  up  without  stop¬ 
ping  the  boat.  If  he  had  stopped  his  engines  in  a  storm  of  such  magnitude, 
the  ship  would  have  swung  round  in  the  trough  of  the  seas.  This  might 
have  caused  considerable  damage  aboard,  besides  endangering  the  pas¬ 
sengers.  The  rescue  could  have  been  effected  more  easily  had  we  not  tried 
to  get  out  of  the  Mayan  s  way. 

Before  turning  in  that  night,  we  spread  our  soaked  equipment  out  to  dry 
in  the  engine  room  hatch,  and  then  took  a  turn  round  the  promenade  deck 
to  have  a  look  at  the  weather.  The  ship  was  making  slow  progress  against 
the  gale.  When  the  monstrous  waves  hit  the  Mayan  s  bow,  the  vessel 
would  quiver  from  stem  to  stern  and  stand  still.  Recovering  from  the 
onslaught,  she  would  shake  herself  free  and  plunge  forward  to  meet  the 
next  charge.  For  our  peace  of  mind,  we  tried  hard  not  to  think  of  what 
would  have  happened  if  Captain  Fischer  had  not  turned  up  in  the  nick  of 
time. 

The  next  morning  the  storm  was  still  raging;  and  the  ship  was  making 
very  poor  time.  After  breakfast  we  examined  the  canoe.  Our  fears  of  the 
preceding  night  had  not  been  exaggerated;  the  Vagabunda  looked  like  a 
total  wreck.  Six  of  her  ribs  were  broken;  one  whole  section  directly  for¬ 
ward  of  the  cockpit  was  staved  in;  the  gunwale  on  the  starboard  side  was 
broken  and  torn  loose;  the  stem  had  worked  loose  from  its  fastenings;  and 
the  siding  was  broken  in  a  dozen  places.  The  keel  had  sprung  loose  from 
her  bottom.  While  we  were  wondering  how  to  go  about  repairing  the 
damage,  the  ship’s  carpenter  worked  his  way  through  the  crowd  surround¬ 
ing  the  canoe.  Captain  Fischer  had  instructed  him  to  lend  a  hand,  he  said. 
With  the  aid  of  the  carpenter  and  members  of  the  crew,  we  began  to  replace 
the  broken  timbers. 

The  Mayan  was  due  to  arrive  at  San  Juan  del  Sur  at  one-thirty  that 
afternoon,  five  hours  behind  schedule.  We  were  worried  as  to  whether 
our  presence  aboard  might  not  involve  the  Captain  in  difficulties,  and 
suggested  that  he  put  us  overside  before  the  ship  arrived  in  port.  That  was 
impossible,  he  said,  until  the  wind  went  down,  which  might  not  happen 
for  several  days.  He  suggested  instead  that  we  accompany  him  to  Panama 
and  "cut  out  this  damn  gallivanting  round  in  an  eggshell."  But  from  San 
Juan  del  Sur  south,  the  coast  is  again  a  series  of  bays  and  inlets,  and  we 
wanted  to  explore  them.  The  Captain  then  proposed  that  we  remain  aboard 


364  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

until  the  Mayan  left  San  Juan  del  Sur;  by  then  the  canoe  would  be  in  fair 
shape. 

The  port  officials  who  came  aboard  and  examined  our  papers  at  San 
Juan  del  Sur  were  very  friendly,  and  extended  the  facilities  of  the  port  to 
us  for  making  further  repairs  on  the  canoe.  By  five  o’clock  the  Vagabunda 
had  been  repaired  sufficiently  not  to  leak,  and  as  the  Mayan  prepared  to 
sail,  we  lowered  her  over  the  side. 

We  went  to  say  good-bye  to  the  carpenter,  and  found  him  busy  in  his 
shop  laying  out  material.  "I  have  gone  over  your  canoe  thoroughly,”  he 
said,  “and  here  are  the  things  you  will  need  for  a  complete  repair  job.”  He 
had  assembled  paint,  glue,  screws,  canvas,  and  wood — things  that  we 
might  not  be  able  to  secure  in  San  Juan  del  Sur. 

In  addition  to  the  food  and  clothing  that  Captain  Fischer  and  the  crew 
thoughtfully  provided,  many  of  the  passengers  presented  Ginger  with 
gifts.  The  Vagabunda  was  well  loaded  when  we  paddled  away  from  the 
Mayan. 

After  the  Mayan  s  departure,  we  set  out  towards  the  pier,  but  the  wind 
was  so  strong  that  finally  a  launch  came  out  to  assist  us.  Senor  Carranza, 
manager  of  the  All  America  Cable  office,  met  us  at  the  landing,  and  cordially 
invited  us  to  be  his  guests  while  in  San  Juan  del  Sur. 

A  week  later,  when  the  canoe  was  again  seaworthy,  we  loaded  up  and 
sailed  south  in  high  anticipation  of  what  the  coast  of  Costa  Rica  had  in 
store  lor  us.  The  Vagabunda ,  however,  was  never  her  old  self  again.  She 
was  warped  and  twisted  out  of  shape,  her  trim  lines  gone  lor  ever. 

Our  trip  down  the  coast  was  all  we  anticipated — and  more.  We  ran  in 
and  out  of  storms  in  the  Gulf  of  Papagayo;  explored  islands,  bays  and 
inlets;  visited  great  haciendas  and  small  native  villages.  We  hunted  and 
camped  along  the  “rich  coast”  that  is  Costa  Rica.  Looking  back  over  our 
diaries,  we  find  them  replete  with  a  hundred  incidents  of  exciting  days, 
kindly  people,  wind,  and  stormy  weather. 

Now  the  big  moment  was  about  to  arrive.  We  were  going  to  cross  the 
Gulf  of  Nicoya  to  Puntarenas,  Costa  Rica.  Puntarenas  had  been  our  prin¬ 
cipal  destination  since  leaving  Salina  Cruz.  We  had  planned  to  reach  it 
the  preceding  year,  and  had  instructed  our  families  to  send  mail  there.  By 
now  there  should  be  enough  letters  to  keep  us  busy  for  days.  The  weather 
was  not  auspicious,  but  we  were  in  a  predicament.  This  was  Holy  Week, 
and  we  either  had  to  get  to  Puntarenas  today  or  postpone  our  arrival  until 
the  following  Monday.  Tomorrow  would  be  Good  Friday;  and  besides 
the  fact  that  the  offices  would  be  closed,  it  is  considered  extremely  bad 
taste  to  travel  on  Good  Friday.  The  observance  of  such  matters  may  not 
seem  important  in  Protestant  countries,  but  they  mean  a  lot  in  Catholic 
Central  America. 

Half-way  across  the  gulf  we  stopped  at  Alcatraz  Island  to  prepare  for 
our  entrance  into  port.  Ginger  went  over  our  shore  clothes;  and  we  cleaned, 


Guatemala  to  Costa  Rica 


865 


dried,  and  oiled  the  gear.  When  everything  was  shipshape,  we  cut  each 
other's  hair,  and  otherwise  made  ourselves  presentable.  We  planned  on 
staying  several  days  at  least  in  Puntarenas,  where  we  hoped  to  secure 
permission  to  visit  Cocos  Island.  With  our  official  papers  handy,  and  our 
shore  clothes  ready  to  put  on  quickly,  we  set  out  attired  in  shorts  lor  the 
crossing  to  the  mainland. 

The  Pilot  Guide  warned  against  tide  rips  in  the  gulf,  especially  at  the 
change  of  tide.  The  crossing  gave  us  no  reason  to  doubt  the  accuracy  of 
this  invaluable  mariner's  guide,  for  we  encountered  tide  rips,  wind,  rocks, 
shoals,  and  breakers.  Part  of  the  way,  the  wind  and  current  carried  us  along 
at  a  dangerous  speed;  the  canoe  became  all  but  unmanageable,  and  we  had 
to  balance  it  much  as  one  rides  a  surfboard.  Finally  we  got  across  a  bad 
stretch  of  shoal  water,  and  could  see  Puntarenas  ahead.  We  fairly  flew 
towards  the  pier,  the  wind  whistling  as  it  blew  us  along.  There  seemed  to 
be  no  place  for  us  to  land,  for  boats  anchored  out  from  the  end  of  the  pier 
were  pitching  with  such  violence  that  we  could  not  tie  up  to  any  of  them. 

On  the  end  of  the  pier  a  man  signalled  wildly  to  us,  and  then  we  could 
see  that  the  pier  was  in  the  shape  of  an  L.  We  sailed  round  it,  entering  the 
shelter  behind  the  sea  wall.  The  small  crowd  who  had  gathered  to  watch 
our  landing  found  it  hard  to  believe  that  we  had  crossed  the  gulf  in  the 
squall.  For  that  matter,  we  did  too,  when  we  looked  back  at  the  pitching 
white  water. 

I  looked  up  and  down  the  pier  for  some  sign  of  the  customs  guards  who 
had  been  so  conspicuous  in  all  the  other  Central  American  ports,  but  none 
were  in  sight.  "Where  are  your  customs  men?"  I  inquired. 

"I  am  the  customs  man,"  answered  a  young  fellow  dressed  in  European 
clothes  and  a  sea-going  cap.  "Come  up  on  the  pier,"  he  invited. 

"Not  until  we  present  our  papers,"  I  returned.  "We  are  entering  this 
port  under  'protest.'" 

"Oh,  that  won’t  be  necessary,"  he  said.  "Tie  up  your  boat  near  the 
ladder,  and  I'll  take  you  to  the  Port  Captain." 

"What's  this?"  asked  Ginger  in  English.  "Some  kind  of  a  game?  Every 
other  place  they've  had  a  dozen  guards  ready  and  waiting  until  they  could 
find  a  good  excuse  to  throw  us  into  gaol.  It's  mighty  funny  that  there  isn't 
anybody  here  but  that  fellow  in  the  cap." 

Then  we  saw  a  policeman,  neatly  attired  in  a  spick-and-span  uniform, 
leisurely  approaching.  As  he  drew  near,  I  shouted  up  to  him,  "We  have 
just  come  down  the  coast  from  Nicaragua,  and  we  want  to  enter  port. 
Where  is  the  Port  Captain?" 

"Well,  why  don't  you  come  ahead  and  enter,  Senor?  The  Port  Captain 
is  in  his  office,"  the  policeman  replied. 

We  fully  expected  to  be  thrown  into  the  local  gaol  for  such  a  breach  of 
etiquette  as  going  ashore  without  a  permit,  but  apparently  we  had  to  take 
the  chance.  This  was  an  unprecedented  reception  for  Central  America, 


366  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

and  we  still  suspected  a  trick.  It  would  have  taken  the  entire  resources  of 
the  State  Department  plus  presidential  intervention  to  have  gotten  us  out 
of  the  jam  that  would  have  resulted  in  Guatemala,  Nicaragua,  or  El 
Salvador  had  we  done  such  a  thing. 

The  young  fellow  in  the  cap  instructed  the  policeman  to  watch  the 
canoe  and  see  that  it  did  not  bump  against  the  pilings,  and  then  we  started 
off  to  the  Port  Captain’s  office.  On  the  way  Ginger  asked  permission  for 
us  to  step  inside  somewhere  and  change  into  our  shore  clothes.  “Why  not?” 
said  the  customs  man.  “You  have  your  clothes  in  that  bag?’’  We  nodded, 
too  thunderstruck  for  words — customs  officials  who  hadn’t  searched  us  from 
stem  to  stern,  shaken  us  upside  down,  and  put  us  through  the  third  degree! 
He  showed  us  a  little  building  on  the  pier.  “You  will  find  everything  that 
you  need,  Senora — a  wash  basin,  towels,’’  he  said  amiably. 

Having  changed  our  clothes  we  followed  our  guide  past  the  customs 
house  on  the  end  of  the  pier  and  up  the  street  for  several  blocks  to  a  green 
building.  He  ushered  us  into  a  room  that  looked  like  anything  but  a  Port 
Captain’s  office  to  us.  There  were  no  soldiers  at  the  door  to  snap  to  atten¬ 
tion  and  salute,  nor  any  officials  dressed  in  gold  braid  and  packing  forty- 
fives.  In  the  center  of  the  pleasantly  furnished  room  there  was  a  large  table, 
with  big  easy  chairs  placed  round  it.  A  smiling,  middle-aged  man  in  shirt¬ 
sleeves  came  forward,  extending  his  hand.  “Won't  you  be  seated — and 
what  will  you  have  to  drink?’’  he  said  in  excellent  English. 

“Listen,  Senor,”  I  said,  slightly  irritated  by  my  inability  to  get  the  so 
necessary  formalities  over  with,  “we  have  been  trying  for  the  last  half 
hour  to  present  our  papers  to  the  port  officials.’’  I  went  on  to  tell  him  that 
we  hadn’t  passed  quarantine;  we  had  no  shore  permit;  we  had  no  ,  .  . 

“Don’t  worry  about  it,”  he  laughed.  “I  am  the  Port  Captain.  We  know 
all  about  you  in  Puntarenas — we  have  been  hearing  about  you  for  over  a 
year.  If  I  remember  rightly  you  were  supposed  to  arrive  here  some  time 
last  year.  And  your  papers — we  won’t  bother  about  them  just  now.  Wel¬ 
come  to  Puntarenas  and  to  Costa  Rica.  The  country  is  yours,  and  we  hope 
that  you  can  remain  with  us  for  a  long  visit.” 

We  had  been  hearing  all  the  way  down  the  coast  that  Costa  Rica  was 
a  friendly  country,  and  now  we  believed  it.  Some  of  our  past  troubles  we 
told  the  Captain.  He  explained  the  difference  by  saying  that  Costa  Rica 
was  not  a  country  torn  by  internal  strife;  there  was  no  necessity  for 
soldiers  parading  the  streets.  Costa  Rica's  pride  was  her  efficient  police 
force.  He  hoped  we'd  stop  by  their  headquarters  on  our  way  down  town. 
Certainly  we  should  hear  their  Saturday  night  concert  in  the  plaza — it  was 
well  worth  listening  to. 

“How  about  going  up  to  San  Jos£?”  I  questioned.  “Will  we  need  a  per¬ 
mit  to  go  that  far  inland?”  No,  it  was  not  necessary,  he  replied — everybody 
knew  who  we  were.  While  it  was  true  that  Costa  Rica  was  strict  about 


367 


Guatemala  to  Costa  Rica 

permitting  foreigners  to  remain  in  the  country,  still  there  was  no  necessity 
for  putting  visitors  through  a  lot  of  red  tape. 

We  finally  prevailed  upon  him  to  sign  our  papers — for  the  record — but 
instead  of  walking  all  over  town  to  get  clearances  from  the  immigration, 
the  customs,  and  other  officials,  the  Captain  merely  telephoned  them,  an¬ 
nouncing  the  J  agabunda  s  arrival.  He  informed  us  that  when  we  were  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  the  various  offices — and  had  time  to  spare — they 
would  be  glad  to  fix  up  any  papers.  And  that  was  our  introduction  to 
official  Costa  Rica.  When  he  had  finished  telephoning,  the  Captain  sug¬ 
gested  that  we  go  to  the  cable  office  and  meet  the  manager,  Mr.  Cotter, 
who  had  a  pile  of  letters  for  us. 

We  walked  down  the  wide  cement  walk  that  paralleled  the  water  front, 
and  into  the  well-kept  yard  of  the  All  America  Cable  office,  where  Mr. 
Cotter  greeted  us  with  a  smile.  He  had  received  cablegrams  about  us  from 
several  offices  along  the  coast.  He  also  had  a  stack  of  mail  for  us.  Mr. 
Cotter's  family  had  moved  inland  for  the  duration  of  the  rainy  season, 
which  was  due;  and  since  he  had  more  room  than  he  knew  what  to  do  with, 
he  invited  us  to  make  our  home  with  him  at  the  cable  office. 

He  detailed  his  man  to  help  us.  The  Port  Captain  also  sent  down  a 
couple  of  men  to  help  us  unload  the  canoe,  which  was  brought  round  in 
front  of  the  cable  office.  In  a  short  time,  we  were  comfortably  installed  in 
a  lovely  room  and  the  Vagabunda  stowed  away  in  the  backyard.  During 
the  process  of  unloading,  newspaper  reporters  and  camera  men  appeared. 
They  wanted  to  know  so  much  that  we  told  them  to  come  back  in  half  an 
hour  when  our  work  was  finished  and  then  we'd  try  to  answer  all  their 
questions. 

After  that  was  over,  we  went  for  a  walk  round  the  town.  Puntarenas 
is  built  on  a  long,  low  sand  spit  of  the  same  name,  Punta  Arenas,  which 
runs  out  into  the  gulf.  During  the  spring  tides,  half  the  town  is  under 
water,  and  boats  are  used  to  traverse  the  flooded  sections.  There  are  many 
trees,  but  few  flowers,  for  the  salt  in  the  sandy  soil  prevents  their  growth. 
Most  of  the  buildings  in  the  main  part  of  town  are  well-built  adobe  or 
wood.  Puntarenas  boasts  a  club,  which  is  built  out  over  the  bay.  For  an 
admission  charge  of  about  eight  cents  (gold)  any  one  may  use  its  private 
bathing  beach,  which  is  enclosed  with  a  stout  wire  fence  to  keep  out  sharks. 
An  esplanade,  lined  with  shade  trees,  benches,  and  soft  drink  stands,  runs 
along  the  beach. 

Everywhere  we  went  people  spoke  to  us  and  were  friendly.  Their  differ¬ 
ence  from  other  Central  Americans  was  marked;  in  Costa  Rica  the  popula¬ 
tion  is  predominantly  white,  blondes  are  not  uncommon.  And  the  women 
are  beautiful!  Unlike  most  Latin  American  women,  they  keep  their  figures 
after  thirty. 

We  wanted  to  go  to  Cocos  Island,  a  Costa  Rican  possession,  but  to  get 
there  we  had  first  to  secure  official  permission.  Captain  Pinel,  Chief  of  the 


368  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

National  Boats,  said  that  if  we  went  to  the  capital,  San  Jos6,  to  see  the 
President,  we  could  undoubtedly  secure  the  necessary  permit.  The  follow¬ 
ing  Tuesday  we  were  up  early  for  the  trip.  The  train  that  was  to  take  us 
looked  like  a  beautiful  little  Christmas  toy  in  comparison  to  the  big,  black 
monsters  that  mean  locomotives  to  a  North  American.  There  is  nothing 
inefficient,  however,  about  the  neat,  clean,  narrow-gauge  railway  system 
of  Costa  Rica.  We  left  Puntarenas  on  time,  and  were  soon  headed  for  the 
capital. 

Our  train  stopped  at  every  little  village  on  the  way.  The  scenery  was 
magnificent — great,  well-wooded  valleys  and  mountains,  and  little  cleared 
farms  as  neat  as  a  pin.  We  climbed  steadily,  and  soon  noticed  the  change  in 
temperature. 

At  noon  we  stopped  for  lunch  at  a  tiny  village  where  women  came 
through  the  train  carrying  trays  loaded  with  good  things  to  eat.  They 
had  nearly  everything  imaginable  in  the  way  of  tropical  produce.  There 
were  vendors  with  delicious  fried  chicken,  hard-boiled  eggs,  tortillas, 
fruit  drinks,  coffee,  avocados,  candy,  and  so  on. 

In  the  afternoon  we  wound  up  a  huge  canyon,  cut  by  a  deep  gorge, 
through  which  flowed  a  tempestuous,  tawny  river,  its  colour  indicative 
that  the  rainy  season  had  already  started  inland.  We  crossed  over  a  great 
bridge  to  the  other  side  of  the  canyon,  and  passed  the  flume  that  carries 
water  to  Puntarenas.  At  two  o'clock  the  train  pulled  in  at  San  Jose  de  Costa 
Rica. 

A  big  reception  committee  waited  for  us  on  the  platform,  but  when  we 
heard  “Where  are  the  canoeists?"  we  ducked  through  the  train  and  out 
the  station's  side  entrance.  For  some  reason  panic  always  seized  us  at 
such  times;  and  we  could  never  think  of  anything  to  say.  But  some  one  saw 
us  and  shouted,  “There  they  are,"  so,  as  gracefully  as  we  knew  how,  wre 
went  back,  answered  questions,  and  shook  everybody's  hand. 

We  went  to  the  Hotel  Europa,  where  we  had  planned  to  meet  Senor 
Carranza,  our  host  in  San  Juan  del  Sur,  only  to  find  that  he  had  had  to 
leave  the  day  before.  When  the  clerk  informed  us  of  the  tariff,  we  too  left. 
The  rate  was  twenty  colones  ($3.00  gold)  per  day.  For  us,  that  was  out 
of  the  question.  We  found  an  excellent  room,  with  board,  in  a  private 
family  for  four  colones  (60c)  per  day.  It  was  modern,  clean  and  comfortable; 
and  the  family  was  charming. 

The  events  of  the  four  days  that  we  spent  in  San  Jose  run  together  in 
our  memories  like  colours  on  a  piece  of  cloth.  For  almost  twenty-four 
hours  a  day,  we  were  either  going  places  or  being  entertained. 

The  American  Minister  to  Costa  Rica,  Mr.  Sacks,  invited  us  to  tea, 
but  we  had  to  send  our  regrets  because  we  had  no  suitable  clothes.  We 
could  manage  well  enough  in  the  ports,  but  our  clothes  were  out  of  place 
in  San  Jose,  which  is  four  thousand  feet  above  sea  level,  and  very  cool. 
People  in  San  Jose  wore  dark,  formal  clothes.  My  white  pants  and  shirt 


Guatemala  to  Costa  Rica 


369 


and  Ginger’s  print  dress  were  hardly  the  thing.  We  explained  in  our  note 
of  regret  why  we  did  not  feel  able  to  come — since  we  had  to  have  some 
reason  for  refusing.  Within  the  hour  we  received  another  note,  worded 
in  such  a  way  that  a  refusal  would  have  been  the  height  of  bad  manners, 
inviting  us  to  tea  the  following  day.  We  really  wanted  to  go,  but  we  felt 
conspicuous  enough  without  turning  up  at  a  tea  party  in  tennis  shoes.  The 
papers  had  printed  our  pictures  all  over  the  front  pages,  and  every  time  we 
went  on  the  street,  people  turned  and  stared.  “Ah-h-h,  los  senores  de  la 
canoaY* 

The  following  day  at  tea  time,  we  presented  ourselves  at  the  spacious 
two-storey  American  legation,  and  were  ushered  through  big  rooms,  with 
winding  staircases  and  beautiful  furnishings,  out  into  the  walled  garden, 
where  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sacks,  with  their  legation  staff,  awaited  us.  We 
stopped,  and  for  a  moment  could  hardly  believe  our  eyes.  Every  person 
present  was  dressed  as  we  were!  The  men  wore  white  pants,  with  their 
shirt  sleeves  rolled  up;  and  the  women  wore  print  dresses.  It  was  a  gesture 
that  we  will  never  forget. 

For  both  of  us  the  afternoon  was  perfect.  The  garden  itself  was  beautiful, 
with  orchids  and  myriads  of  other  brilliant  tropical  flowers.  Tw  o  gorgeous 
macaws  had  the  run  of  things.  Their  special  delight  was  to  climb  on  the 
arm  of  your  chair,  and  deftly  relieve  you  of  the  sandwich  that  you  were 
about  to  eat. 

When  we  were  ready  to  leave,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sacks  walked  back  to  the 
door  with  us.  The  late  afternoon  was  turning  chill,  and  when  they  observed 
that  we  had  come  without  wraps,  they  promptly  produced  warm  coats  for 
us  to  use  during  our  stay  in  San  Jose. 

The  President  of  Costa  Rica  received  us  graciously,  gave  us  permission 
to  go  to  Cocos,  and  presented  us  with  an  autographed,  hand-painted  seal 
of  Costa  Rica.  The  German  colony  entertained  us  royally  at  the  German 
club  and  we  were  given  a  luncheon  in  the  block-long  mere  ado,  where  every¬ 
thing  from  harness  to  shoes  is  sold.  Then  we  visited  the  big  German  brew¬ 
ery,  where  they  broke  open  a  keg  of  beer  and  produced  pretzels.  Thus, 
when  we  finally  got  on  the  train  for  Puntarenas,  we  were  dizzy  with  the 
excitement  of  those  four  days. 


Chapter  Twenty-six 


THE  LAST  ADVENTURE— COCOS  ISLAND 

Ever  since  either  one  of  us  was  old  enough  to  read  books  of  adventure, 
Cocos  Island,  with  its  rich  legendary  background  of  pirate  treasure, 
bold  bad  men,  shipwrecked  sailors,  treasure  seekers,  and  bloodshed  had 
seemed  the  ultimate  in  adventure  and  romance.  I  remember  a  particularly 
bad  session  I  had  one  time  with  a  Mr.  Nealley,  my  instructor  in  philosophy, 
for  drawing  a  sketch  map  of  the  island  during  one  of  his  lectures.  I  had 
picked  up  an  old  parchment  map  (showing  the  location  of  the  treasure,  of 
course),  and  I  could  always  escape  the  boredom  of  the  class  room  on 
drowsy,  summer  afternoons  by  reproducing  from  memory  its  fascinating 
outlines.  I  doubted  if  Mr.  Nealley  would  quite  understand  this,  so  I  made 
no  effort  to  explain  the  immeasurable  attractions  of  Cocos  for  a  restless 
boy  as  against  the  charms  of  Mr.  J.  S.  Mill  and  Herbert  Spencer.  Primarily, 
I  suppose,  the  matter  went  deeper  than  that.  My  behaviour  pattern  and 
my  personal  philosophy  were  grounded  in  action,  objectivity.  I  needed  to 
discover  truth  and  wisdom  for  myself  through  trial  and  error.  I  wanted 
tactual,  as  well  as  mental  contacts  with  life.  This  also  happened  to  be 
Ginger's  set-up,  so  we  drew  sailing  ships  on  the  margins  of  our  school 
books,  while  we  waited  for  the  day  when  we  would  at  last  be  free,  and 
could  “go  places  and  do  things."  Cocos  became  a  symbol — for  years  we 
never  heard  the  word  or  saw  it  in  print  without  a  thrill.  Now  we  had 
permission  from  the  Costa  Rican  government  to  go  there.  How  we  would 
get  there,  as  yet  we  had  no  idea. 

Cocos  Island  lies  in  latitude  5°  32'  North,  and  longitude  87°  00'  West, 
and  is  approximately  three  hundred  and  fifty  miles  off  the  Costa  Rican 
coast.  The  latest  hydrographic  charts  of  the  island  showed  that  a  great 
part  of  it  was  still  unexplored;  even  part  of  its  coast  line  was  not  exactly 
known,  for  it  was  merely  indicated  with  a  dotted  line.  The  centre  of  the 
island,  with  the  exception  of  two  peaks,  was  blank. 

Perhaps  it  is  in  order  to  give  a  short  resume  of  the  island’s  fascinating 
history  for  those  readers  who  are  not  familiar  with  it.  This  extraordinary 
little  speck  of  land  in  the  Pacific  has  had  a  hold  upon  the  imaginations  of 
men  since  its  discovery  in  the  seventeenth  century.  Almost  invariably  there 
has  been  bloodshed  and  trouble  for  everybody  in  any  wise  concerned  with 
it — including  the  Lambs. 

The  English  discovered  Cocos,  or  at  any  rate  they  are  the  first  to 


The  Last  Adventure — Cocos  Island  371 

mention  the  island.  Half  a  dozen  Central  and  South  American  countries 
have  claimed  it;  Ecuador  and  Colombia  fought  a  pitched  battle  over  it 
in  the  80  s.  A  buccaneer  captain,  John  Eaton,  master  of  the  Nicholas,  was 
the  first  to  visit  the  island  in  1685.  According  to  the  captain,  it  was  “all 
but  inaccessible  except  at  the  N.E.  end,  where  there  is  a  small  but  secure 
harbour  and  a  fine  brook  of  fresh  water  runs  into  the  sea  there."  This 
harbour  was  named  by  the  next  visitor  of  record,  Lionel  Wafer,  who 
arrived  fourteen  years  later,  in  1699,  and  called  it  “Wafer  Bay." 

It  was  Wafer  who  started  the  story  of  a  lake  somewhere  in  the  interior 
of  the  island.  He  said,  “There  is  a  steep  hill  in  the  middle  of  the  island 
thick  set  with  coco-nut  trees,  but  a  great  many  clear  springs  of  clear  and 
sweet  water  rising  to  the  top  of  a  hill  are  there  gathered  as  in  a  large  basin 
or  pond,  and  the  water,  having  no  channel,  it  overflows  the  verge  of  its 
basin  in  several  places,  and  runs  trickling  down  in  pleasant  streams."  (We 
later  had  reason  to  suspect  that  this  was  guesswork  on  Wafer's  part,  for 
he  apparently  never  explored  “the  middle  of  the  island  set  thick  with  coco¬ 
nut  trees.")  He  goes  on  to  relate  how  his  crew  relished  the  coco-nut  milk, 
and  how  it  affected  them.  He  says,  “We  did  not  spare  the  coco-nuts.  One 
day,  some  of  our  men  minded  to  make  themselves  merry,  went  ashore  and 
cut  down  a  great  many  coco-nut  trees,  from  which  they  gathered  the  fruit, 
and  drew  about  twenty  gallons  of  the  milk.  They  then  sat  dowm  and  drank 
the  healths  of  the  king  and  queen,  and  drank  an  excessive  quantity,  yet  it 
did  not  end  in  drunkenness;  but  this  liquor  so  chilled  and  benumbed  their 
nerves  that  they  could  neither  go  nor  stand,  nor  could  they  return  on  board 
without  the  help  of  those  who  had  not  partaken  of  the  frolic.  Nor  did  they 
recover  in  four  or  five  days'  time."  (We  often  experienced  the  peculiar 
numbing  effects  of  an  excess  of  coco-nut  milk — rather  like  too  much  as¬ 
pirin.) 

Lieutenant  Colnett  of  the  Royal  British  Navy  is  the  next  person  who 
tells  us  of  Cocos.  He  arrived  in  Wafer  Bay  in  1793  aboard  the  British 
merchantman  Rattler .  “.  .  .  we  left  Hogs  and  Goats  and  sowed  every  kind 
of  garden  seed,"  he  writes  in  his  log.  He  also  left  “.  .  .  a  bottle  with  a 
letter  in."  The  weather  was  just  as  villainous  then  as  later  visitors  reported 
it.  Says  Colnett  (the  Rattler  was  anchored  in  Wafer  Bay),  “At  Noon, 
heavy  rain,  no  sight  of  land.  p.m.  and  night.  Light  winds  and  variable 
seldom  any  intermission  of  heavy  rain  and  at  times  thunder  and  lightning." 
He  mentions  the  lake.  “.  .  .  in  a  beautiful  valley  at  the  head  of  this  bay, 
in  which  there  are  cocoanutts  innumerable,  and  also  a  run  of  wrater  18-20 
feet  broad  supplied  from  a  Bason  about  a  mile  distant  where  the  officers  and 
people  went  by  turns  to  bathe."  But  notwithstanding  the  beauty  of  Cocos 
it  had  its  difficulties,  according  to  the  Lieutenant.  “The  greatest  incon¬ 
veniences  we  experience  in  this  Isle  (Cocos)  were  the  continual  rains  fre¬ 
quently  accompanied  by  thunder  and  lightning,  and  the  rains  are  so  heavy 
as  to  obscure  for  hours  together  the  Jibb  Boom,  but  perhaps  it  may  not 


372  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

be  so  at  all  seasons.  The  woolen  Cloaths  of  all  who  were  on  shoar  were 
flyblown  in  large  spots  and  covered  with  maggots.  Should  any  vessel  re¬ 
pair  to  this  island  to  land  their  sick  or  to  water,  they  might  soon  destroy 
the  flies  by  kindling  of  fires,  and  as  tents  would  not  keep  the  water  out,  I 
would  recommend  building  a  house.  There  is  wood  at  hand  and  plenty  of 
cocoanutt  leaves  to  thatch  with." 

Captain  George  Vancouver  went  to  Cocos  two  years  after  the  Rattler  s 
visit.  He  found  the  "bottle  with  a  letter  in,"  but  he  couldn't  find  the 
"bason"  or  lake.  That  seems  to  be  the  history  of  Cocos  both  past  and 
present;  the  features  of  its  landscape  shift  every  other  week  or  so. 

Legend  says  that  in  1819  or  thereabouts  a  certain  Captain  Thompson, 
entrusted  by  the  Spanish  merchants  of  Lima,  Peru,  with  $12,000,000  in 
gold  bullion,  jewels,  and  plate  for  safekeeping  (".  .  .  because  his  ship  flew 
the  British  Ensign"),  disabused  their  trust,  and  ran  away  in  his  ship,  the 
Mary  Deary  from  the  harbour  of  Callao,  and  buried  the  loot  in  a  cave  on 
Cocos.  This  happened  during  the  wars  of  independence  when  the  Peruvian 
liberator,  Bolivar,  was  challenging  the  power  of  Spain,  and  wealthy  Span¬ 
iards  and  the  Church  fathers  were  trying  desperately  to  conceal  their 
wealth  from  his  insurgent  armies.  It  was  the  beginning  of  Cocos'  fame  as 
a  treasure  cache. 

Now  comes  the  era  of  map  making,  and  gullible  treasure  hunters  by 
the  boat  load.  Captain  Thompson  (of  course)  made  a  chart  showing  the 
treasure’s  location.  This  chart  eventually  fell  into  the  hands  of  two  sailors 
named  Keating  and  Bogue.  They  organized  a  treasure  hunt  which  set  out 
from  Newfoundland  in  1845  or  1846.  They  found  the  cache,  or  so  the  story 
goes,  but  the  crew  mutinied,  and  the  survivors  sailed  home  empty-handed. 

In  1896  a  British  Admiral  named  Palliser  landed  a  crew  of  bluejackets 
on  Cocos  and  tore  up  the  landscape  with  dynamite  (for  which  he  was 
sharply  reprimanded  by  the  British  Admiralty),  but  his  luck  was  no  better 
nor  worse  than  that  of  his  predecessors.  He  found  nothing,  but  he  became 
bitten  with  the  Cocos’  treasure  bug;  and  after  his  retirement  from  the 
Navy  helped  organize  another  expedition  to  the  island.  Palliser's  and  his 
partner  Hacking's  hopes  were  founded  on  maps  which  they  obtained  from 
Keating's  daughter.  The  net  result  of  this  foray  was  also  exactly  nothing. 

In  addition  to  the  Thompson  loot,  Cocos  is  also  supposed  to  contain 
eleven  million  dollars  or  so  hidden  by  the  pirate,  Benito  Bonito,  who  stole 
it  in  a  sensational  exploit  near  Acapulco,  Mexico.  After  quelling  a  mutiny 
on  Cocos  in  which  fifteen  of  his  crew  were  killed,  Bonito  divided  the  treas¬ 
ure  into  four  parts  among  the  survivors.  Bonito  buried  his  in  a  cave,  and  the 
officers  and  men  cached  theirs  in  different  places  among  the  island’s  many 
fastnesses. 

Within  the  last  fifty  years  dozens  of  expeditions  have  been  financed  and 
outfitted  in  London,  New  York,  Canada,  and  elsewhere  to  seek  the  untold 
riches  cached  on  Cocos.  But  the  most  picturesque  and  interesting  figure 


The  Last  Adventure — Cocos  Island  373 

associated  with  the  island's  recent  history  was  a  German,  August  Gissler, 
who  lived  on  Cocos  for  eighteen  years,  having  arrived  in  1884.  He  had  a 
concession  from  the  Costa  Rican  government  for  exclusive  treasure  rights, 
and  watched,  with  equanimity,  expedition  after  expedition  come  and  go. 
An  impressive  figure,  the  bearded  German  was  six  feet  four  inches  in 
height.  He  always  greeted  the  intruders  on  his  little  domain  with  a  pleas¬ 
ant  smile.  Yes,  there  was  gold  aplenty,  he  used  to  tell  them — but  you  had 
first  to  find  it!  He  said  that  he  knew  where  the  treasure  was  hidden,  hut  it 
was  now  covered  by  a  landslide,  and  would  require  capital,  machinery,  and 
time  to  recover  it.  Gissler  frequently  found  in  the  underbrush,  he  said,  the 
bones  of  the  pirates  who  had  been  slain  in  Benito  Bonito's  mutiny,  and  in 
other  sanguinary  battles  over  treasure.  But  as  far  as  any  one  knows,  that 
is  all  he  ever  did  find. 

The  history  of  Cocos  is  replete  with  stories  of  old  gentlemen  who,  re¬ 
penting  on  their  deathbeds  for  the  sins  of  their  youth,  have  pressed  into 
the  hands  of  sympathetic  bystanders  an  old,  worm-eaten  chart  of  Cocos, 
showing  the  exact  location  of  at  least  sixty  million  dollars  worth  of  plate, 
doubloons,  gold  ingots,  jewels,  a  solid  gold  Madonna — “.  .  .  a  weight  for 
ten  or  fifteen  men,"  says  one  chronicler  who  claimed  to  have  seen  it — 
bar  silver,  jewel-studded  swords,  and  so  on.  Everybody  connected  with  the 
pirates,  Captain  Thompson,  Bonito,  Keating,  and  Bogue,  left  myriads  of 
descendants — all  outfitted  with  maps.  These  in  turn  found  funds  and  or¬ 
ganizers  for  trips  to  Cocos. 

Is  it  any  wonder  that  we  wanted  to  go  too?  We  were  following  in  dis¬ 
tinguished  company.  British  admirals,  noted  explorers,  Sir  Malcolm  Camp¬ 
bell  of  racing  fame,  dozens  of  the  great  and  near-great  had  been  to  Cocos. 
Some  of  them  went  for  the  fun  of  it,  and  others  with  serious  intent  to  bring 
back  that  odd  sixty  million.  For  our  part,  we  were  not  interested  in  treas¬ 
ure  hunting;  we  wanted  to  see  the  place  that,  two  hundred  and  fifty  years 
after  its  discovery,  no  one  really  knew  anything  about. 

Captain  Pinel,  of  the  Costa  Rican  Coast  Guard  Patrol,  was  a  mine  of 
information  on  the  island’s  recent  history.  He  had  seen  a  dozen  expedi¬ 
tions  come  and  go.  Most  of  them  left  a  record  behind  them  of  quarrels  and 
troubles  of  all  sorts.  One  of  the  main  dissatisfactions,  bitterly  complained 
of,  was  the  weather — it  rained  every  day.  Captain  Pinel  said  that  the 
weather  had  not  been  exaggerated;  the  sun  seldom  shone  for  any  length 
of  time  during  the  rainy  season,  now  beginning.  He  said  that  mould  and 
mildew  covered  everything  in  a  day’s  time.  It  was  impossible  to  keep  fresh 
food,  even  coffee,  from  spoiling  almost  immediately.  There  was  very  little 
food  on  Cocos — that  is,  wild  fruit  and  vegetables;  and  it  would  be  neces¬ 
sary  for  us  to  take  a  six  months'  supply  of  canned  goods,  or  else  not  eat. 
We  could  afford  no  such  outlay,  and  I  told  him  so.  Three  weeks',  or  a 
month’s  supply  at  the  most,  was  the  best  we  could  do.  "But  we  can  take 
seeds  and  plant  a  garden,"  I  said. 


374  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

“That  won't  do  you  any  good,"  said  Pinel.  “It's  been  tried.  The  seeds 
grow,  but  the  plants  all  go  to  leafage,  because  of  the  rich  soil  and  incessant 
rain.  Food  isn't  the  only  thing  to  consider  either.  Boats  seldom  call  at 
Cocos — perhaps  once  a  year  some  one  puts  in  for  fresh  water.  Suppose  one 
of  you  gets  sick,  or  is  injured,  what  are  you  going  to  do?  There’s  no  way 
to  get  help.  Have  you  thought  of  that,  and  have  you  given  it  enough  con¬ 
sideration?'' 

I  talked  the  matter  over  with  Ginger.  Cocos  seemed  to  be  a  “tropical 
hell,”  from  all  accounts.  I  told  her  that  Pinel  said  that  as  long  as  he  could 
remember,  everyone  who  went  to  the  island  swore  on  returning  to  the 
mainland  that  they  never  wanted  to  hear  its  name  mentioned  again.  But 
Ginger  was  not  particularly  perturbed.  Since  we  couldn’t  travel  down  the 
coast  during  the  rainy  season,  and  we  had  to  stay  somewhere,  why  not 
Cocos?  At  the  end  of  the  rainy  season  we  could  come  back  to  Puntarenas, 
go  on  down  the  coast  to  Panama  as  we  intended,  and  from  there  take  a 
steamer  home. 

“We're  becoming  awfully  optimistic,  it  seems  to  me,''  I  said,  “when  we 
start  talking  about  going  to  Cocos;  about  how  long  we're  going  to  stay; 
and  just  when  we’re  coming  back.  I  haven’t  the  foggiest  notion  of  how 
we're  going  to  get  there  in  the  first  place.  We  can't  sail  in  the  Vagabunda — 
at  least  we  know  that.  And  if  we  do  get  there,  we'll  have  to  trust  our  luck 
as  to  when  we're  coming  back.'' 

“Well,  if  we  do  get  there,"  Ginger  replied,  “Cocos  ought  to  put  the 
finishing  touches  on  our  potential  careers  as  adventurers.  We've  tried  our 
hand  at  living  where  it  only  rains  once  in  eight  years  or  so,  and  if  we  can 
survive  where  it  rains  every  day,  that  ought  to  prove  something.  Let's  go 
ahead  with  our  plans — just  as  though  we  knew  the  answers — and  see  what 
happens.  The  first  thing  is  the  grub  list — what  shall  we  take?" 

We  had  very  little  money,  over  and  above  our  passage  home,  so  the 
list  was  limited.  The  absolute  minimum  was  a  three  weeks'  food  supply, 
ten  packages  of  garden  seeds,  fishhooks,  a  small  roll  of  wire  for  fencing, 
permanganate  of  potash,  and  bandages.  Ginger  also  wanted  a  few  yards  of 
bright-coloured  cloth  for  clothes,  something  to  counteract  the  effect  of  the 
rain.  Anyway,  we'd  look  gay. 

Our  living  expenses  in  Puntarenas  were  very  low.  We  spent  about  a 
hundred  centimos  each  day  for  food  (l5c  U.S.  currency).  We  were  very 
fond  of  avocados,  which  cost  forty  centimos  (6c)  per  dozen.  Our  breakfast 
of  bread  and  coffee  could  be  purchased  at  the  mercado  or  any  number  of 
little  eating  stands  for  fifteen  centimos ,  a  little  more  than  two  cents.  Other 
prices  were  in  proportion.  For  one  dollar  a  day  (gold,  i.e.,  U.S.  currency) 
one  could  live  handsomely  in  Costa  Rica.  We  found  that  we  could  purchase 
the  supplies  that  we  needed  without  dipping  into  our  passage  money. 

Captain  Pinel  thoroughly  disapproved  of  the  proposed  Cocos  trip,  and 
among  other  things  which  he  gave  us  to  read  (which  he  hoped  would 


w  vf  SF*' «'  •' 


Morlh  Portion  oj 

COCOS  ISLAND 

tot.  3*  3t  N  ton}.  86*  S&' t» 

From  Survey  made  in  1936  by  Don  Lamb 
©  Treasure  Locations  . Old  Trails 


Seal*  ■  4*  •  1  mitt 


The  Last  Adventure — Cocos  Island  si  I 

quench  any  lingering  fires  of  enthusiasm  for  Cocos)  was  a  copy  of  the 
American  Magazine  for  February  1932.  This  article  contained  a  vivid  ac¬ 
count  of  three  men  who  had  spent  six  months  on  the  island.  They  had  had 
a  terrible  time.  Their  durance  vile  on  Cocos  was  unintentional.  While  at¬ 
tempting  to  careen  their  boat  for  repairs,  they  had  beached  it  on  the  island 
at  what  they  assumed  to  be  high  tide.  I  lie  tide  had  continued  to  rise  for 
two  hours,  and  the  waves  had  pounded  the  small  boat  to  pieces.  They  sal¬ 
vaged  their  stores  and  equipment  from  the  craft,  and  fixed  up  a  deserted 
shack  on  the  beach.  I  he  list  of  salvaged  equipment  sounded  munificent  to 
us.  They  had  tick  mattresses,  clothes,  an  ax,  two  hatchets,  three  jack- 
knives,  three  razors,  three  rifles,  a  pistol,  three  hundred  rounds  of  am¬ 
munition,  a  stove,  a  gallon  ol  gasoline,  and  matches.  Their  food  supply 
was  scant:  flour,  a  few  dried  beans,  and  some  tinned  stuff' — sardines,  soup, 
cocoa  and  milk.  This  had  not  bothered  them  at  first,  for  they  knew  that  in 
the  tropics  things  grew  on  trees — you  simply  picked  them  off  when  you 
were  hungry.  But  this  proved  to  be  an  illusion;  the  paradisiacal  fruits  of  this 
tropic  Eden  turned  out  to  be  pigs  and  coco-nuts.  They  soon  grew  extremely 
bored  with  a  diet  of  boiled  pig,  and  it  took  all  their  time  to  chop  down 
coco-nut  trees  with  their  dull  ax. 

“Why  on  earth  didn’t  they  roast  the  pig,  or  pickle  it  in  brine  and  smoke 
it?”  asked  Ginger. 

I  dunno,  I  answered,  and  kept  on  reading  aloud  the  story  of  their 
misadventures.  Little  things  drove  you  crazy  when  you  were  cast  away  on 
a  desert  island  where  it  rained  all  the  time,  they  said.  The  monotony,  the 
muggy  weather,  the  limited  diet,  the  close  and  unavoidable  association 
with  the  same  people  day  after  day — these  things  got  on  your  nerves. 
Finally  they  took  their  guns  apart  to  avoid  “accidents”;  they  had  begun  to 
talk  of  shooting  each  other. 

“If  they  took  their  guns  apart,  how  did  they  kill  the  pigs?”  asked  Ginger 
inquisitively. 

“Maybe  they  declared  an  armistice  during  pig-killing  time — the  article 
doesn’t  say,”  I  answered. 

They  were  not  very  active  apparently,  and  grew  fat  on  the  coco-nuts, 
but  the  fat  didn’t  mean  much.  Eventually  it  took  two  men  to  bring  in  a 
pig,  and  required  frequent  intervals  of  rest;  they  grew  tired  easily.  Once 
by  some  lucky  fluke  they  chopped  down  a  coco-nut  tree  which  fell  across 
the  top  of  another  tree  and  broke  it  off.  Two  trees  in  one  day!  That  gave 
them  all  the  next  day  for  a  holiday. 

Ginger  snorted.  “What  they  needed  was  work — not  a  day  off.” 

“You're  forgetting,”  I  said,  “that  work  isn’t  fun  for  most  people.  Sure, 
those  fellows  would  have  been  a  lot  better  off,  and  had  a  much  better  time, 
if  they’d  even  exercised  a  little  legitimate  curiosity  about  the  island,  instead 
of  spending  most  of  their  time  sitting  round  feeling  sorry  for  themselves. 
One  of  the  men  slept  in  his  bunk  for  a  whole  month  before  he  inadvertently 


378  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

discovered  a  box  of  dynamite  beneath  it.  They  never  mention  trying  to 
make  the  shack  habitable,  and  it's  apparent  that  they  didn't,  or  they'd  have 
found  the  dynamite." 

They  didn't  think  much  of  old  Crusoe  either.  They  were  sure  that  if  he 
had  been  on  Cocos,  he  would  have  been  running  round  in  a  gee  string, 
eating  boiled  pig  and  coco-nuts  as  they  did.  They  were  also  dubious  about 
his  reception  of  Friday;  he'd  have  probably  killed  him  in  a  week,  because 
he  didn’t  like  the  colour  of  Friday’s  skin,  or  for  some  other  trifling  reason. 
I  wasn’t  so  sure.  The  character  in  Defoe’s  immortal  tale  had  a  lot  of 
spunk,  sense,  curiosity,  ingenuity,  and  imagination — and  plenty  of  energy. 
Juan  Fernandez,  the  island  where  Alexander  Selkirk,  the  British  sailor  on 
whose  memoirs  Defoe  partially  built  his  story,  was  marooned,  probably 
hadn’t  a  whole  lot  on  Cocos. 

"Well,  do  you  still  want  to  go?"  I  asked  Ginger  when  I’d  finished 
reading  the  article. 

"Certainly.  I  think  Cocos  would  be  a  swell  place  to  try  out  our  theories. 
Just  how  much  does  environment  control  your  thinking?  It  ought  to  be  an 
interesting  experiment.  There’s  one  thing  I’m  not  sure  about,  though. 
We’re  both  restless,  and  Cocos  isn’t  very  big.  How  will  we  react  to  the 
rain  and  the  solitude  once,  to  use  your  expression,  we  ‘get  things  under 
control’?  Before  then,  we’ll  both  be  busy  and  interested,  but  after  that - ?" 

"I  don’t  know  the  answer  to  that  either,"  I  said. 

Just  then  some  one  rapped  on  the  door.  A  man  from  the  coast  guard 
patrol  stood  outside.  "Captain  Pinel  wants  to  see  you  at  once,"  he  said. 

"Well,"  said  Pinel,  as  we  hurried  into  his  office,  "what  did  you  think 
of  the  castaways’  experiences  on  Cocos?  Still  want  to  go?" 

"Yes!"  we  answered  in  unison. 

He  cleared  his  throat.  "Hm-m,  you’ll  be  interested  to  know  that  the 
coast  guard  patrol  boat  Santa  Rosa  is  leaving  for  the  island  in  a  day  or  two, 
and  will  probably  make  another  trip  to  Cocos  in  November." 

"Can  you  take  us?"  we  demanded  in  high  excitement. 

Pinel  grinned.  "I  wouldn’t  be  a  bit  surprised  if  you  obtained  permis¬ 
sion."  He  said  that  the  exact  date  of  sailing  had  not  been  decided.  He  had 
yet  to  receive  word  from  the  Administrador  of  the  Coast  Guard  Patrol.  It 
might  be  a  day  or  two — a  week  perhaps. 

It  was  evident  that  we  had  some  one  to  thank  for  arranging  matters  so 
conveniently;  particularly  in  view  of  the  Costa  Rican  government’s  opposi¬ 
tion  to  any  one’s  attempting  to  live  on  the  island.  Many  of  the  ill-starred 
expeditions  had  put  the  Government  to  no  little  trouble  and  expense,  and 
it  was  becoming  increasingly  difficult,  we  were  told,  to  secure  official  per¬ 
mission — to  say  nothing  of  Government  aid — to  go  there. 

We  returned  to  the  cable  office,  and  proceeded  at  once  to  put  our  equip¬ 
ment  in  shape  for  the  long  sojourn  on  "Treasure  Island." 

The  next  morning  we  were  awakened  at  an  unholy  hour  by  some  one 


The  Last  Adventure — Cocos  Island 


379 


pounding  on  the  door.  I  sleepily  opened  it,  and  accepted  the  letter  handed 
to  me.  It  was  from  Pinel.  “At  two  o’clock  tomorrow,”  it  said,  “the  Santa 
Rosa  will  leave  for  Cocos.”  I  glanced  at  the  date,  the  letter  had  been  written 
the  day  before. 

“When  did  Pinel  give  you  this  letter?”  I  asked. 

“Yesterday,”  answered  the  stolid  messenger. 

“Holy  smoke!”  I  yelled.  “We’re  leaving  this  afternoon  and  we  haven't 
bought  a  thing,  and  nothing's  ready.” 

We  hurried  into  our  clothes  and  dashed  down  to  Pinel’s  office.  He  was 
out,  but  his  assistant  confirmed  the  sailing  date,  and  showed  us  the  tele¬ 
gram  from  the  Adrninistrador  received  the  day  before. 

Out  of  Pinel's  office  and  down  to  the  mercado  we  sprinted  at  top  speed. 
So  many  things  to  do,  and  such  a  short  time  to  do  them  in!  The  shop  keep¬ 
ers  must  have  thought  we  were  crazy.  At  last  the  goods  were  bought,  the 
bills  paid,  and  the  merchants  instructed  to  deliver  our  purchases  to  the 
Muellecito ,  the  little  pier,  where  the  Santa  Rosa  docked. 

Then  Ginger  went  off  to  do  some  personal  shopping,  and  I  went  to  the 
post  office  to  arrange  to  have  our  mail  held;  and  made  the  rounds  of  the 
customs  house,  the  immigration  office,  and  so  on,  to  get  the  necessary 
clearance  papers  for  Cocos.  These  things  done,  I  went  back  to  the  cable 
office,  where  I  met  Ginger. 

With  the  help  of  the  neighbours  we  got  the  canoe  down  to  the  beach, 
where  we  loaded  it.  Then  I  paddled  round  to  the  dock  where  the  Santa 
Rosa  lay,  while  Ginger  dashed  off  to  make  some  last  minute  purchases. 

The  Santa  Rosa ,  a  sturdy  little  boat  built  for  Coast  Guard  work,  was 
Pinel’s  pride  and  joy,  for  he  had  designed  her  and  superintended  her  build¬ 
ing.  She  was  fifty  feet  long,  twenty  feet  wide,  and  powered  with  a  Diesel 
engine.  In  view  of  what  we’d  experienced  of  the  old  Pacific’s  humours 
along  this  section  of  the  coast,  the  Santa  Rosa  needed  to  be  sturdy. 

At  one  o’clock,  out  of  breath  and  ready  to  drop,  we  rushed  into  Pinel’s 
office.  “You  Americans,  how  you  rush  round,”  he  said. 

“But  you  said  two  o’clock,”  Ginger  gasped. 

“Two  o'clock  is  the  time  we  should  like  to  start,”  Pinel  said  with  a 
twinkle  in  his  eye.  “But  if  you  were  not  ready,  of  course,  the  boat  would 
wait  for  you.” 

“There's  just  one  thing  more  that  I  think  we  ought  to  have.”  Ginger 
hesitated  and  looked  at  me.  I  knew  what  she  wanted,  for  she  had  been 
hinting  about  it  for  some  days.  Since  I  was  far  from  sold  on  the  idea,  my 
face  took  on  a  “please  don't  bring  that  up  again”  expression.  Pinel  grinned. 
A  married  man  himself,  he  was  apparently  well  acquainted  with  this  do¬ 
mestic  byplay.  Ginger  wanted  a  dog.  All  the  way  down  the  coast  she  had 
stopped  to  pat  every  mangy  dog  in  every  Indian  village  that  we  came  to. 
We  both  like  animals,  but  it  had  been  obviously  impossible  to  care  for  a 


380  Enchan ted  Vagabonds 

dog  on  a  trip  like  ours.  But  now  that  we  were  going  to  Cocos — well,  how 
about  a  dog? 

‘‘Wait  a  minute/'  I  protested.  “If  it’s  going  to  be  as  hard  to  feed  our¬ 
selves  as  everyone  says  it  is,  how  are  we  going  to  feed  a  dog?” 

“Don't  you  think  we  could  manage,  if  it  were  a  little  dog?"  Ginger's 
face  wore  a  very  pleading  look,  and  eventually  I  gave  in — not  too  grace¬ 
fully  and  with  misgivings.  “But  remember,  it's  got  to  be  a  little  dog,  and 
you've  got  to  teach  it  to  eat  fish.'' 

Pinel  winked  at  Ginger  and  left  the  office  without  a  word.  I  had  a  faint 
suspicion  that  I'd  been  jobbed.  There  was  still  half  an  hour  until  sailing 
time,  so  Ginger  and  I  went  out  to  look  over  the  assortment  of  dogs  running 
up  and  down  the  street.  She  didn't  seem  to  care  for  any  of  the  available 
dogs,  however,  and  suggested  that  since  she  had  not  spent  all  the  money 
which  I  had  given  her,  it  might  be  a  good  idea  to  spend  it  on  one  real  meal. 
We  went  into  a  restaurant  and  ordered  nearly  everything  on  the  bill  of 
fare.  On  the  way  back  to  the  dock  we  made  a  few  additional  purchases: 
paper  for  diaries,  extra  leads  for  pencils,  and  a  can  of  white  lead  for  re¬ 
pairing  the  canoe. 

The  boat  was  a  beehive  of  activity  when  we  returned.  Mrs.  Pinel  and 
several  other  men’s  wives  had  come  to  say  good-bye  to  their  husbands, 
who  were  undertaking,  they  believed,  a  hazardous  voyage.  No  one  in  this 
part  of  the  world  likes  to  see  a  member  of  his  family  go  to  sea  during  the 
rainy  season,  with  its  fierce  attendant  storms. 

Mrs.  Pinel  had  over  her  arm  a  market  bag  made  of  fibre.  At  a  nod  from 
Captain  Pinel,  she  reached  into  it  and  handed  something  to  Ginger.  It  was 
a  tiny  ball  of  black  fur,  Pinel  and  his  wife  laughed  at  the  expression  on 
Ginger’s  face  as  she  gazed  at  the  tiny  creature.  “Is  this  a  dog?''  she  ex¬ 
claimed. 

“It  certainly  is,”  said  Pinel.  “And  according  to  specifications,  too.''  The 
little  thing  just  fitted  into  the  palm  of  Ginger’s  hand.  “Furthermore,”  he 
continued,  “it  is  a  very  fine  dog.  Its  father  was  imported  from  England, 
and  on  its  mother's  side  it  is  related  to  all  the  breeds  of  Costa  Rica — and 
that’s  a  distinguished  pedigree.” 

It  lifted  its  solemn  little  face  to  Ginger,  and  then  nuzzled  down  in  her 
hand.  “Do  you  suppose  it's  old  enough  to  eat?”  I  asked,  trying  to  put  a 
little  enthusiasm  into  my  voice.  Pinel  had  certainly  put  over  a  fast  one. 

“Oh,  sure,”  he  said.  “See,  its  eyes  are  open.” 

On  the  spot  Ginger  named  it  Coco;  and  more  than  made  up  for  my  lack 
of  interest,  profusely  thanking  Captain  and  Mrs.  Pinel  for  their  gift. 

After  a  half  hour  of  confusion  and  shouted  orders,  the  lines  were  cast  off, 
and  then  some  one  shouted,  “Where  is  the  Senora?”  Since  there  was  only 
one  “senora”  going  on  this  trip,  I  looked  round.  She  was  nowhere  in  sight. 
Then  racing  down  the  pier  to  accompanying  cheers  came  Ginger.  She  took 
off  in  a  wild  leap,  cleared  the  distance  between  the  ship  and  the  dock,  and 


The  Last  Adventure — Cocos  Island  381 

landed  in  a  heap  with  two  of  the  crew  who  had  been  standing  by  to  help 
her. 

The  Santa  Rosa's  engines  began  to  swing  us  round,  and  we  chugged  off 
into  the  gulf.  When  we  were  under  way,  I  turned  to  Ginger  and  asked, 
“Where  in  hell  were  you?”  Well,  Coco  was  little,  and  it  was  a  long  way 
to  the  island;  in  the  meantime,  Coco  had  to  eat.  So  she’d  gone  to  a  drug 
store,  where  she  knew  the  proprietress,  and  had  gotten  a  bottle  of  milk. 
Once  on  the  island,  Coco  would  learn  to  drink  coco-nut  milk,  but  she 
couldn’t  let  a  little  dog  go  that  length  of  time  without  food — even  if  she 
did  take  a  chance  on  missing  the  boat. 

After  sunset  Ginger  and  I  sat  on  the  stern,  gazing  at  the  lights  of 
Puntarenas,  just  visible  on  the  horizon,  and  taking  our  last  look  at  civiliza¬ 
tion  for  months  to  come.  Ginger  shivered  a  bit.  “Cold?”  I  asked. 

“No,”  she  answered.  “Just  thrilled  and  excited.  We’ve  talked  so  much 
about  this  trip,  and  now  that  we’re  on  our  way,  I  can  hardly  believe  it. 
Did  you  honestly  ever  think  we’d  actually  go  to  Cocos?” 

“I  don't  exactly  know,”  I  answered.  “Cocos  was  part  of  a  dream — a 
dream  I  suppose  that  everyone  has  at  sometime  in  his  life.  It  was  one  of 
those  places  about  which  you  say  to  yourself,  ‘Some  day  I’ll  go  there,' 
without  ever  quite  knowing  how  it's  to  be  done.” 

Pinel  sauntered  up  as  we  passed  Cape  Blanco  light.  “I  have  just  set 
the  course  for  the  island,”  he  said.  “This  is  the  last  time  you  will  see  the 
mainland,  or  anv  other  land,  for  three  days,  for  we’re  heading  straight  out 
into  the  Pacific.” 

“This  is  a  familiar  run  to  you,  is  it  not,  Captain?”  I  asked.  “How  many 
trips  have  you  made  to  Cocos?” 

“More  than  I  like  to  think  of,”  he  answered.  “When  treasure  hunters 
were  on  the  island,  it  was  necessary  for  us  to  run  out  about  every  two 
months.” 

“Tell  us  something  about  them,”  Ginger  urged.  “Did  they  take  the 
business  of  treasure  hunting  seriously,  or  was  it  just  a  sham  on  the  part 
of  the  people  who  had  organized  the  companies  to  satisfy  their  investors?” 

Pinel  laughed.  “There's  been  every  conceivable  type  of  human  among 
them,”  he  said.  “Some  of  them  were  honest  men  who  believed  that  they 
had  information  of  real  value  as  to  the  treasure’s  location,  and  confidently 
expected  to  retrieve  a  fortune  for  themselves  and  their  backers.  Others,” 
Pinel  shrugged,  “were  obvious  tricksters.  Well-known  geophysical  en¬ 
gineers  have  visited  the  island.  Several  companies  came  equipped  with 
electrical  locators  and  adequate  machinery  for  digging.  One  outfit  brought 
a  medium.  The  locators  and  the  medium  were  of  about  equal  value — 
neither  one  found  anything.  Some  simple  souls  thought  all  they  had  to 
do  was  to  bring  a  pick  and  a  map,  and  if  they  came  on  Saturday  they  ex¬ 
pected  to  be  off  by  Monday  with  the  loot.  I  have  seen  a  great  many  of  their 
charts,  and  seldom  are  any  two  of  them  in  agreement.  On  some  of  the 


382  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

maps  the  treasure  is  located  under  a  cliff  on  Wafer  Bay;  others  show  it  to 
be  located  on  the  west  side  of  Chatham  Bay;  still  others  place  it  upstream 
from  Wafer  Bay.  Sometimes  it  is  hidden  in  a  cave,  and  sometimes  it's 
buried  beneath  a  sand  bar.  Many  of  these  so-called  copies  of  the  old  charts 
show  plainly  that  they  have  been  copied  from  the  modern  hydrographic 
maps  of  the  island,  which  show  it  to  be  almost  round;  the  earlier  maps 
depict  it  as  long  and  narrow.*'  Pinel  chuckled.  "You’d  be  surprised  at  the 
number  of  charts  that  turn  up  which  plainly  indicate  that  whoever  made 
them  never  saw  Cocos — and  didn’t  even  bother  to  copy  anybody’s  map. 
Of  course,  there  isn’t  the  slightest  shred  of  proof  that  there  ever  was  any¬ 
thing  of  value  buried  on  Cocos,  but  that  doesn't  seem  to  affect  the  treasure 
seekers  in  the  slightest." 

While  we  sat  talking,  the  beam  from  the  light  grew  fainter  and  fainter 
until  we  could  barely  see  it  through  the  mist.  "It’s  a  funny  thing  about 
that  island,"  Pinel  mused — "what  it  does  to  people.  No  one  has  ever 
lived  there  any  length  of  time  but  Gissler.  It’s  a  long  way  off  the  beaten 
track,  and  there  isn’t  much  arable  land,  and  it’s  hard  to  grow  things  be¬ 
cause  of  the  incessant  rains;  but  there’s  more  to  it  than  that.  Something 
about  the  place  seems  to  turn  men  into  devils;  they  quarrel,  hate,  and  often 
kill  each  other.  Maybe  that's  what  the  gold  lust  always  does  to  men.  I 
don’t  know."  He  sighed  and  threw  up  his  hands,  as  though  the  whole  com¬ 
plicated  problem  of  human  behaviour  was  too  much  for  him.  "Let’s  have 
some  coffee,"  he  said. 

For  four  days  we  ploughed  through  the  restless,  squall-swept  sea.  The 
crew  spent  most  of  the  time  in  their  bunks,  especially  when  it  rained,  but 
Ginger  and  I  were  too  excited  to  remain  still  very  long.  Much  of  our 
time  we  were  in  the  pilot  house  with  Pinel,  making  observations,  a  diffi¬ 
cult  task,  to  say  the  least,  for  the  sun  shone  through  the  clouds  only  at 
intervals.  Often  at  night  Ginger  would  steer  the  ship,  while  I  lounged  in  a 
corner  with  the  helmsman  and  talked,  listening  to  the  patter  of  the  rain 
and  the  hissing  of  the  seas  as  they  splashed  over  the  bow. 

During  the  brief  intervals  of  sunlight,  the  ocean  about  us  presented  an 
ever  changing  panorama.  Huge  clouds,  their  upper  surfaces  flooded  with 
light,  scudded  across  the  horizon;  below  them,  black  streaks  of  rain  de¬ 
scended  in  torrents  into  the  sea.  The  effect  of  the  white-capped  clouds  al¬ 
ternating  with  the  black  bands  of  rain,  the  contrast  of  the  foam-crested, 
wind-lashed  waves  and  the  dark  valleys  between  them,  made  a  never-to-be- 
forgotten  sight.  I  counted  seven  rain  squalls  in  our  immediate  vicinity  dur¬ 
ing  one  interval  of  clear  weather.  When  the  squalls  rushed  down  upon  us, 
the  little  ship  would  shiver  from  the  impact  of  the  furious  waves,  shake 
herself,  and  plough  ahead  in  the  pelting  rain  that  cut  down  the  visibility  to 
a  bare  fifty  feet.  Lieutenant  Colnett  hadn't  exaggerated  when  he  said, 
".  .  .  and  the  rains  were  so  heavy  as  to  obscure  for  hours  together  the 
Jibb  Boom." 


The  Last  Adventure — Cocos  Island  383 

Finding  Cocos  after  you  get  to  the  proper  latitude  is  no  easy  matter 
sometimes.  It  is  quite  possible  to  sail  within  a  mile  of  the  island  and  never 
see  it,  since  it  is  almost  continually  shrouded  in  clouds.  And  when  the  visi¬ 
bility  is  poor,  it  is  impossible  to  see  it  from  a  distance  of  half  a  mile  off 
shore.  Colnett  records  in  his  log  that  he  couldn't  see  land  while  anchored 
in  Wafer  Bay.  There  are  also  very  strong  currents  along  this  section  of 
coast,  between  the  mainland  and  the  island,  and  they  are  very  irregular. 
These  currents  may  set  a  boat  fifty  or  even  a  hundred  miles  off  her  course, 
either  up  or  down  the  coast. 

At  noon  of  the  fourth  day  we  took  an  observation.  The  island  could  not 
be  far  off,  but  no  land  was  visible  through  the  heavy  mist.  Captain  Pinel 
cut  the  engines  to  half  speed,  and  the  Santa  Rosa  ploughed  cautiously 
through  the  misty  seas.  We  had  hoped  that  the  weather  would  clear,  and 
that  sometime  during  the  daylight  hours  Cocos  would  loom  directly  before 
us.  But  it  was  not  until  midnight  that  we  reached  the  correct  latitude. 

At  1  a.m.  the  Captain,  Ginger,  and  I  were  on  the  bow  watching  a 
school  of  porpoises  streak  through  the  phosphorescent  water.  Nothing  else 
was  to  be  seen  through  the  heavy  mist.  Fifteen  minutes  later  a  flash  of 
lightning  directly  ahead  showed  us  a  high,  dark  outline  rising  out  of  the 
enveloping  fog.  As  we  drew  nearer  it  grew  more  distinct.  Flashes  of  light¬ 
ning  played  round  the  summits  of  its  peaks,  and  we  could  see  the  palm 
trees  silhouetted  against  the  skyline.  There  it  was,  silent,  mysterious 
lonely.  We  could  hear  the  seas  beating  against  its  rocky  shores — Cocos 
Island. 

“Damn  my  hide,"  said  Pinel,  “are  we  north  or  south  of  Chatham  Bay? 
Well,  we'll  just  have  to  cruise  until  we  find  it,  even  if  we  have  to  circum¬ 
navigate  the  island." 

“Now,  Captain,"  remonstrated  Ginger,  “you  can’t  fool  us.  Chatham 
Bay  is  on  the  north  side — and  you  know  north  from  south." 

Pinel  grinned.  “Young  lady,  you're  a  better  navigator  than  your  hus¬ 
band — he  didn't  let  out  a  peep." 

“Why  don’t  we  steam  into  Chatham  Bay  round  that  little  island  ahead?" 

I  asked.  “I  haven't  gazed  at  a  map  of  Cocos  all  these  years  for  nothing. 
Besides,  you  should  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  missing  your  course  by  a 
whole  half  mile  on  a  three-hundred-and-fifty-mile  run." 

Pinel  laughed.  He  hadn't  gotten  away  with  a  thing.  “That’s  your  fault," 
he  said.  “You  helped  with  that  last  observation.  Anyway,  we’re  mighty 
lucky.  One  time  I  missed  the  island,  and  spent  six  days  hunting  for  it. 
Well,  here  we  are." 

The  crew  came  forward  and  stood  by  the  anchor  while  we  inched  our 
way  past  the  dark  shadow  of  Nuez  Island  into  Chatham  Bay.  Captain  Pinel 
had  no  time  for  joking  now,  for  this  was  a  dangerous  anchorage.  A  strong 
current  swept  between  Nuez  Island  and  Colnett  Point,  making  navigation 


384  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

difficult.  The  head  of  Chatham  Bay  is  foul  ground,  and  a  ship  must  not 
approach  too  close  to  shore. 

At  Pinel's  command,  the  anchor  splashed  into  the  water.  We  had  ar¬ 
rived.  “We  really  are  here/'  Ginger  said  with  a  tremor  in  her  voice.  The 
rest  of  the  crew  turned  in,  but  Ginger  and  I  sat  on  the  hatch  holding  hands, 
and  gazing  at  the  black,  rugged  landscape  about  us. 

The  east  paled;  the  black  cliffs  turned  to  deep  purple,  which  changed  to 
blue;  then  “the  dawn  came  up  like  thunder."  Outlined  against  the  sun 
stood  the  mysterious  peaks  of  Cocos,  their  summits  crowned  with  verdure. 
The  emerald  waters  of  the  bay  were  bounded  on  the  east  by  red-brown 
cliffs  over  which  tumbled  sparkling  waterfalls;  and  on  the  west  by  rank, 
tropical  growth  that  grew  down  to  the  water’s  edge.  Between  the  arms  of 
the  bay  was  a  small  valley  fringed  with  palms.  The  scene  was  so  lovely — 
beyond  anything  that  we  had  dreamed  of — that  words  failed  us. 

Captain  Pinel  came  on  deck.  “After  breakfast  we'll  take  you  round  and 
put  you  off  at  Wafer  Bay;  it's  more  beautiful  than  Chatham,  though  that’s 
hard  to  believe,"  he  said. 

We  were  both  too  excited  to  eat.  As  the  Santa  Rosa  steamed  round  the 
point  of  Nuez  Island,  and  past  another  small  island,  Ginger  and  I  stood 
on  the  bow,  scarcely  believing  that  the  scene  we  looked  at  was  real.  Then 
before  us  opened  out  the  beautiful  expanse  of  Wafer  Bay.  On  its  south  side 
a  silvery  ribbon  of  water  tumbled  down  a  high  cliff,  cascading  nearly  a 
thousand  feet  into  the  green  foliage  below.  This  was  the  waterfall  de¬ 
scribed  by  Wafer.  “.  .  .  the  water  pours  down  in  a  cataract  so  as  to  leave  a 
dry  place  under  the  spout,  and  form  a  kind  of  arch  of  water.  The  freshness 
which  the  falling  water  gives  in  the  air  in  this  hot  climate  makes  this  a 
charming  place."  Pirate  Cove  came  into  view.  It  looked  as  we  had  imagined 
it — the  way  a  pirate  cove  ought  to  look.  As  we  glided  further  into  the  bay, 
we  could  see  the  white  sand  beach  with  its  background  of  slender  coco 
palms.  Behind  the  beach  rose  rugged  hills  covered  with  huge  trees,  many 
palms,  and  giant  ferns. 

The  north  side  of  Wafer  Bay  is  bounded  by  high  brown  cliffs.  Midway 
between  the  head  of  the  bay  and  the  point,  the  sea  pounds  through  a  great 
tunnel  to  the  blue  waters  of  the  other  side. 

Captain  Pinel  ordered  the  anchor  dropped  well  offshore,  explaining  that 
the  bay  was  full  of  wrecks  and  rocks;  and  that  at  low  tide  one  of  the  wrecks, 
close  inshore,  was  visible. 

We  lost  no  time  in  getting  the  canoe  over  the  side  and  loaded  up.  Since 
we  had  more  supplies  than  we  could  carry  in  one  trip,  Pinel  ordered  the 
dinghy  launched  to  transport  the  surplus  baggage,  climbing  in  himself  to 
accompany  us.  “It’s  high  tide  now,"  he  said,  “and  we  can  row  in  through 
a  channel  and  land  on  the  south  end  of  the  sand  beach  where  the  stream 
enters  the  bay." 

He  led  the  way  in  the  dinghy.  As  we  approached  the  channel,  he  pointed 


385 


The  Last  Adventure — Cocos  Island 

out  the  dangerous  rocks  to  be  avoided.  There  were  only  a  few  small  break¬ 
ers  on  the  bar,  and  we  were  soon  in  the  deep  water  of  the  stream.  We 
landed  on  a  steep  sand  bank  shaded  by  coco-nut  palms. 

\\  alking  beneath  the  palms  where  other  men  had  lived,  we  gazed  at  the 
wreckage  that  littered  the  grove,  the  sad  remains  of  their  occupation: 
trash,  cans,  parts  of  things  that  had  served  them,  broken  machinery,  bot¬ 
tles,  worn-out  batteries,  mildewed  pieces  of  cloth,  a  broken  oar,  rusted 
iron,  pieces  of  radio  locators,  and  so  on.  We  made  our  way  through  the 
wreckage  to  three  rickety  sheet-iron  huts,  with  piles  of  trash  beside  them. 
They  were  filthy. 

In  one  of  the  huts  there  was  an  old  rusted  stove,  now  useless.  Outside 
the  window,  from  which  the  screen  had  rotted  away,  was  a  pile  of  rotting 
refuse.  All  the  garbage  had  been  dumped  out  of  the  window.  Bones  of  fish 
and  pigs  showed  white  where  the  rain  had  washed  the  other  filth  away. 
Beyond  the  piles  of  trash,  we  could  see  the  fallen  boles  of  coco  palms.  The 
whole  place  stank,  but  not  only  because  of  the  decaying  rubbish.  There 
was  a  psychic  stench  about  the  place  as  well  from  the  unloveliness  of  the 
men’s  characters  who  could  make  such  a  pestilential  hole  out  of  this  beau¬ 
tiful  tropical  island.  Ginger  kicked  half-heartedly  at  a  rusted  can;  it  rolled 
across  the  ground  to  keep  company  with  a  rotten  coco-nut  someone  had 
tossed  out  of  the  door  after  drinking  its  milk.  Swarms  of  house  flies  buzzed 
in  our  faces.  The  waves  pounding  on  the  clean  white  sand  seemed  to  be 
vainly  trying  to  reach  this  abomination,  as  though  eager  to  wash  away  a 
stain  on  the  landscape. 

That  afternoon  the  Santa  Rosa  sailed  away,  leaving  us  alone  upon  the 
island  of  our  dreams.  But  what  a  rude  awakening!  We  felt  sick.  The  boat's 
crew  had  come  ashore  and  picked  up  everything  that  might  be  of  use  to 
them.  We  were  glad  to  see  them  take  it,  for  we  wanted  none  of  it.  Even 
the  broken  stove  was  dismantled  and  carted  away.  We  stood  on  the  beach 
and  waved  until  Pinel  and  the  crew  were  out  of  sight,  and  then  walked 
slowly  down  the  white  strip  of  sand  between  the  coco-nut  grove  and  the 
bay.  It  was  long  past  mealtime,  but  the  filth  that  lay  over  everything  had 
killed  any  desire  we  might  have  had  for  food. 

The  very  air  seemed  charged  with  every  ugly  phase  of  human  behaviour. 
One  felt  that  for  the  most  part  the  men  who  had  come  here  had  left  all  the 
decencies  behind;  the  overwhelming  desire  for  gold  had  stripped  them  of 
every  consideration — even  of  intelligent  self-interest — until  nothing  re¬ 
mained  but  the  forces  of  disintegration.  The  fact  that  the  men  who  had 
recently  been  here  were  the  representatives  of  a  civilized  social  order,  and 
had  brought  with  them  the  tools  of  its  progress,  only  made  the  case  more 
damning.  To  the  best  of  their  ability  they  had  converted  Cocos  into  a 
physical  and  moral  slum;  not  even  the  degenerate  Indians  of  Tiburon  could 
have  done  a  better  job. 

We  returned  to  the  filthy  camp,  and  set  up  temporary  headquarters 


386  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

among  the  palm  trees — as  far  from  its  disorder  as  we  could  get.  Round 
the  campfire  that  night  we  talked  over  our  plans.  When  we  awakened  the 
next  morning  it  was  raining.  All  day  the  rain  fell  from  the  grey,  leaden 
skies,  that  steady,  remorseless  drip-drip,  pat-pat  on  the  palm  fronds,  the 
reiterated  single  note  on  the  corrugated  iron  roofs,  that  had  driven  men 
mad.  In  the  half  light  the  place  looked  indescribably  lonely  and  desolate. 

The  first  thing  on  the  program  was  to  rid  the  place  of  the  refuse.  We 
found  and  repaired  an  old  scow  that  had  been  left  behind  by  some  treasure 
outfit,  and  with  this  we  ferried  the  rubbish  out  to  sea  and  dumped  it.  Each 
time  the  tide  was  high  enough  to  permit  us  to  cross  the  bar,  we  took  a  load 
of  trash  to  Davy  Jones's  locker.  There  was  a  certain  almost  vicious  pleas¬ 
ure  to  be  had  out  of  destroying  the  unlovely  mementos  of  Cocos'  former 
inhabitants. 

We  cleaned,  scrubbed,  and  repaired  the  most  suitable  of  the  three  build¬ 
ings,  using  parts  of  the  other  two  for  repair  materials.  Ginger  scoured  and 
scrubbed  every  square  inch  of  the  inside.  Then,  after  salvaging  the  mate¬ 
rials  we  could  use,  such  as  lumber  and  nails,  we  tore  down  the  two  shacks, 
carted  them  out  to  sea,  and  dumped  them. 

We  made  our  camp  by  a  pool  while  we  were  engaged  in  cleaning  up 
the  place.  During  the  days  when  it  did  not  rain,  we  made  frequent  trips 
to  the  stream  to  wash  off  the  accumulation  of  filth.  On  other  days  the  rain, 
of  course,  kept  us  clean. 

At  the  end  of  the  first  week,  the  camp  was  fairly  well  rid  of  its  accumu¬ 
lated  litter.  We  cut  away  the  weeds,  made  rakes,  raked  the  weeds  and 
other  refuse  on  the  ground  into  piles,  and  dumped  this  in  the  bay  too. 

Meanwhile  we  had  begun  experimenting  with  the  seeds.  Some  we  placed 
in  a  little  patch  of  rich  soil;  others  where  the  ground  was  half  soil  and  half 
sand.  Near  the  beach,  where  it  was  nearly  all  sand,  we  planted  beans. 

Then  we  began  a  tour  of  the  area  round  our  part  of  the  island.  Along 
the  banks  of  a  large  stream  that  flowed  down  from  the  centre  of  the  island 
and  past  our  camp,  we  discovered  a  plant  similar  to  watercress,  and  in  the 
stream  bed  we  found  crawfish.  On  a  flat  back  of  the  coco-nut  grove,  where 
August  Gissler  had  built  his  hut,  were  several  lemon  trees  and  an  orange 
tree.  The  lemons  tasted  like  a  cross  between  a  lemon  and  a  lime,  and  were 
delicious.  There  were  also  a  number  of  almond  trees,  and  two  varieties  of 
guava  trees.  A  few  papaya  trees  grew  among  the  palms  just  back  of  the 
beach.  On  the  ridge,  between  Wafer  and  Chatham  bays,  we  found  coffee 
and  mango  trees.  There  were  many  trails  made  by  the  pigs,  descendants 
of  Lieutenant  Colnett's  "hogs." 

In  addition  to  the  coco-nuts,  fruits,  and  pig,  we  had  plenty  of  fish,  lob¬ 
sters,  and  birds'  eggs.  Since  there  was  ample  food  for  any  able-bodied  per¬ 
son  who  was  willing  to  look  for  it,  we  became  increasingly  sceptical  of 
those  high-powered  yarns  we  had  read  about  castaways  starving  on  Cocos. 
Conditions  hadn't  changed  to  suit  our  convenience  either,  for  Lieutenant 


The  Last  Adventure — Cocos  Island  387 

Colnett,  writing  one  hundred  and  forty-two  years  ago,  hadn’t  noticed  any 
scarcity.  He  says,  ...  as  we  neared  the  Island,  Boobies,  Egg  Birds,  and 
Man  of  War  Hawks,  fin  back  Whale,  Grampasses,  with  Bonnetta  and 
Albecores  innumerable  .  .  .  fish  were  in  great  abundance  .  .  .  eels  and  toad 

fish  were  in  plenty,  plump  and  very  large  size.  Shell  fish  were  scarce.  A 
new  kind  of  large  limpets  .  .  ." 

We  spent  about  two  weeks  constructing  our  hut,  meanwhile  continuing 
to  live  in  the  tent.  We  built  the  hut  near  the  stream  among  a  clump  of  coco 
palms,  and  set  it  up  off  the  ground  on  palm-log  pilings.  It  was  twenty  feet 
square,  and  was  divided  into  two  rooms.  The  sides  and  roof  were  made  of 
palm  thatch.  Ginger's  kitchen  occupied  one  corner;  here  she  had  a  stove 
made  from  an  oil  drum,  a  worktable,  and  shelves.  Over  the  stove  was  a 
row  of  bars  on  which  to  hang  food  and  articles  of  clothing  and  equipment, 
where  the  heat  would  dry  them  out,  preventing  spoilage  from  mildew 
and  mould.  In  another  corner  we  built  a  small  bunk,  and  cushioned  it  with 
a  thick  layer  of  feathery  palm  leaves. 

The  repaired  shack  was  converted  into  a  workshop,  where  we  made 
tools  from  scraps  of  iron  salvaged  from  the  wreckage.  A  hacksaw  blade 
from  our  own  equipment  served  as  a  saw.  I  made  a  hammer  and  an  ax  out 
of  pieces  of  rusted  metal.  To  make  the  ax  I  first  built  a  forge,  using  the  red 
adobe  mud  from  the  hill  back  of  camp.  A  tanned  pigskin  made  an  excellent 
pair  of  bellows,  and  a  large  block  of  iron  that  we  had  saved  for  possible  use 
as  an  anchor  served  for  an  anvil.  The  most  difficult  thing  to  obtain  was 
charcoal,  for  most  of  the  wood  on  the  island  was  always  damp,  and  the  kiln 
had  to  be  continually  rekindled.  We  really  did  need  an  ax,  and  to  my  de¬ 
light  it  finally  took  shape.  I  was  also  pleased  to  find  upon  tempering  it 
that  it  was  steel.  The  surface  was  polished  with  my  carborundum  stone 
until  it  was  bright  and  shining,  and  then  sharpened  to  a  razor  edge. 

With  these  tools,  plus  a  square  and  a  pair  of  dividers  made  from  wood, 
we  constructed  the  furnishings  for  our  hut  out  of  the  salvaged  lumber  and 
nails.  This  part  of  the  job  was  pure  fun,  though  we  put  in  about  sixteen 
hours  a  day  of  hard  work.  Most  of  the  time  it  rained,  but  we  were  so  busy 
that  we  hardly  noticed.  Only  when  the  tropical  squalls  were  so  strong  that 
we  could  not  stand  against  them  did  we  seek  the  shelter  of  the  hut,  and, 
barring  the  door  against  the  blasts,  set  to  work  on  the  inside. 

The  hut's  furniture  consisted  of  a  table,  two  chairs,  a  writing  desk,  a 
comfortable  lounge  built  along  one  wall,  a  tiny  ship's  bunk  for  Coco,  and 
numerous  handy  little  gadgets  for  use  about  the  house.  We  became  so  en¬ 
thusiastic  over  the  job  of  creating  a  home  atmosphere  that  we  cut  away 
one  wall  and  built  a  fireplace.  Although  it  was  actually  too  warm  to  enjoy 
the  fire,  we  spent  many  pleasant  evenings  in  the  light  of  the  small  blaze, 
making  objets  d’art  for  the  house.  They  really  weren't  bad  either.  We 
made  a  lamp  in  which  we  could  burn  coco-nut  oil  from  a  carved  coco-nut 
shell;  and  we  also  made  ash  trays,  flower  vases,  salt  shakers,  and  fruit 


388  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

bowls  out  of  coco-nut  shells;  and  fancy  tableware  from  hardwood  which  we 
collected  upstream.  Ginger  wove  mats,  made  curtains,  and  cut  doilies  out 
of  palm  fibre,  which  she  used  for  a  luncheon  set.  These  looked  very  pretty 
on  the  clean  white  boards  of  our  dining  table. 

In  an  open  space  back  of  the  coco-nut  grove  we  put  up  a  drying  rack 
for  meat  and  fish,  and  built  a  small  smokehouse  for  curing  ham  and  bacon. 

Down  by  the  stream  we  constructed  a  table  for  cleaning  fish,  and  another 
for  washing  dishes.  We  also  fixed  up  a  little  place  in  which  to  do  the 
laundry.  The  water  in  the  stream  was  very  soft,  for  it  was  nothing  more 
than  rain  water,  and  it  was  perceptibly  colder  than  ocean  water.  Water  on 
Cocos  is  in  a  state  of  perpetual  motion.  Sea  water  evaporates  and  forms 
clouds,  which  immediately  come  to  Cocos  to  drop  their  moisture.  The  rain 
runs  down  the  steep  sides  into  the  creeks  and  streams  and  out  into  the 
ocean,  whereupon  the  process  repeats  itself. 

One  of  the  secrets  of  living  successfully  in  such  a  restricted  area  as 
Cocos,  is  to  be  able  to  change  the  scene  of  your  activities.  A  little  alcove 
among  the  coco-nut  palms  suggested  rustic  benches  where  we  could  sit  and 
enjoy  fresh  coco-nut  milk.  A  palm  stump  in  the  centre  served  as  a  chopping 
block  for  opening  the  nuts.  It  was  a  pleasant  retreat  during  the  heat  of 
the  day. 

On  the  bank  beside  the  stream  Ginger  built  an  aquarium.  On  our  forag¬ 
ing  tours  she  was  always  on  the  lookout  for  some  little  fish  or  crab  to  add 
to  her  collection.  Adjoining  the  aquarium  she  made  a  rock  garden  with 
ferns  and  flowers.  While  she  was  busy  with  these  projects,  I  built  fish  and 
lobster  traps. 

We  dug  a  sizable  garden  plot,  after  constructing  a  rustic  fence  to  keep 
the  deer  and  pigs  out.  In  it  we  planted  corn,  beans,  carrots,  peppers,  and 
tomatoes.  Melons,  chiotes}  and  more  beans  were  planted  in  various  other 
open  spots.  While  we  were  cleaning  up  the  camp,  we  found  some  potato 
plants  that  had  probably  sprung  up  from  discarded  peelings.  When  trans¬ 
planted,  they  grew  exceptionally  well.  Experiments  with  seeds  proved  that 
they  grew  best  where  the  soil  was  not  too  rich — that  is,  they  produced 
something  else  beside  leafage.  So  to  retard  their  leafy  growth  we  mixed 
beach  sand  with  the  rich  humus. 

There  was  seldom  an  idle  hour  during  the  daytime,  and  often  we  worked 
far  into  the  night.  When  we  were  not  making  something  lor  the  house, 
we  were  toraging  in  the  back  country,  or  working  in  the  garden,  or  fishing, 
or  diving  for  lobsters,  or  paddling  out  to  the  islands  offshore  to  collect 
birds'  eggs;  or  hunting  wild  pigs,  tanning  their  hides,  and  rendering  out 
lard.  A  successful  pig  hunt  meant  a  lot  of  work.  The  smokehouse  fire  had 
to  be  tended  while  the  meat  was  cured  into  ham  and  bacon,  though  some¬ 
times  we  pickled  it  in  brine,  and  used  it  as  corned  pork. 

Climbing  coco-nut  trees  was  made  difficult  by  the  great  number  of  small 
red  ants  and  the  parasitic  growths  on  the  palm  boles.  We  made  a  long  pole 


. 


The  Last  Adventure — Cocos  Island  391 

with  a  hook  attached  to  the  end,  and  by  manipulating  it  together  we  could 
detach  the  nuts.  The  use  of  this  contraption  was  not  without  its  minor 
casualties — to  get  out  of  the  way  of  the  falling  nuts  required  fast  foot  work, 
and  sometimes  we  weren’t  fast  enough. 

We  were  fond  of  palm-heart  salad,  so  I  occasionally  felled  a  small  tree 
that  grew  in  a  clump  which  needed  thinning  out.  Ginger  made  delicious 
salads  from  the  crisp  white  flesh,  garnishing  them  with  hard-boiled  birds' 
eggs  and  watercress.  Sometimes  she  fried  the  heart,  which  cooks  to  the 
consistency  of  fried  onions,  and  is  very  good  to  eat. 

The  deer  often  came  into  camp,  trying  to  nip  off'  the  tender  tops  of  the 
growing  vegetables  by  reaching  over  the  fence.  To  prevent  them  from 
doing  this,  we  placed  little  tidbits  out  for  them,  such  as  a  bit  of  corn,  coco¬ 
nut  meat,  or  palm  heart  when  we  had  it.  Finally  they  became  so  tame  that 
they  ate  out  of  our  hands.  One  old  buck  decided  that  he  liked  to  have  his 
head  scratched.  Every  day  he  came  in,  accepted  his  little  tidbit,  and  then 
turned  his  head  on  one  side  for  us  to  scratch  just  below  the  ear.  When  that 
side  had  been  scratched  to  his  satisfaction,  he  would  turn  his  head  to  the 
other  side.  If  we  did  not  immediately  comply  with  his  wishes,  he  would 
butt  us  gently  with  his  horns.  These  deer  had  been  placed  on  the  island 
by  the  Costa  Rican  Government,  and  in  consequence  were  not  completely 
wild. 

Once  the  filth  was  cleared  away,  and  all  the  breeding  places  filled  in, 
the  flies  soon  vanished.  The  thousands  of  cockroaches  also  disappeared 
when  there  was  nothingdeft  for  them  to  eat.  We  disposed  of  every  scrap 
of  refuse  by  dumping  it  into  the  stream  immediately  after  the  daily  deluge, 
when  the  high  water  would  carry  it  out  to  sea.  The  refuse  from  cleaning 
fish  was  used  to  bait  the  lobster  and  fish  traps,  or,  if  we  did  not  need  it, 
disposed  of  in  the  sea.  Ginger,  who  scrubbed  and  scoured  the  hut  each 
day  until  it  shone,  kept  me  busy  making  soap  out  of  ashes  and  coco-nut  oil. 

She  made  some  gay  clothes  for  herself  out  of  the  cloth  we  had  bought 
in  Puntarenas.  One  bright,  flowered  piece  became  a  South  Sea  island  wrap¬ 
around  skirt  with  a  triangular  bodice.  My  clothes  consisted  of  the  briefest 
of  shorts.  And  since  it  rained  every  day,  and  we  were  almost  always  wet, 
either  from  swimming  or  being  out  in  the  rain,  the  fewer  clothes  we  wore 
the  better. 

One  night  while  we  sat  in  front  of  the  fire  making  charcoal  sketches  of 
sailing  ships  for  wall  decorations,  Ginger  said,  “We  seem  to  have  about 
everything  in  our  new  civilization  but  a  golf  course.”  She  laughed. 

“All  right,”  I  said,  “if  you  want  to  go  in  for  society  sports  we’ll  make 
one  tomorrow.  If  you’ll  weave  a  golf  bag  out  of  palm  fibre,  I’ll  make  the 
clubs  and  whittle  out  some  hardwood  balls;  and  then  we’ll  lay  out  a  course.” 

Two  days  later  we  began  playing  golf  on  the  beach.  The  fairway  was 
along  the  strip  of  white  sand,  and  the  rough  was  either  in  the  water  or 
back  in  the  brush  that  fringed  the  beach.  At  first  we  had  difficulty  with 


392  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

Coco,  who  insisted  on  chasing  the  balls,  but  we  soon  trained  her  to  chase 
them  only  when  they  went  into  the  rough. 

Coco  was  a  very  smart  dog,  and  we  devoted  time  each  day  to  her  train¬ 
ing.  But  she  had  one  bad  habit — she  bolted  her  food,  especially  meat,  gob¬ 
bling  it  down  as  though  she  thought  it  might  be  taken  from  her.  We  cured 
her  of  this  habit  by  stuffing  her.  Ginger  cooked  a  big  pot  of  fish  and  another 
of  pork.  After  Coco  had  eaten  all  the  fish  she  could  hold  we  gave  her  the 
meat;  this,  too,  she  gulped  down  as  though  she  were  famished.  When  her 
appetite  began  to  lag  we  fed  her  one  piece  at  a  time.  She  would  take  one 
end  of  the  strip  that  we  held  out  to  her  in  her  mouth,  and  hold  it  there, 
glaring  at  us  if  we  threatened  to  take  it  away.  The  poor  pup  swelled  up 
like  a  balloon,  and  we  both  felt  so  sorry  for  her  that  we  were  ready  to  cry, 
but  it  was  a  case  of  kill  or  cure.  Finally  poor  Coco  could  no  longer  swallow 
— she  couldn’t  even  walk — and  we  carried  her  outside  the  hut.  By  now  she 
was  a  sick  dog.  She  remained  in  her  bunk  until  noon  the  next  day.  But 
after  that  she  ate  her  food  as  a  sensible  dog  should. 

After  a  time  it  became  increasingly  difficult  to  find  absorbing  things  to 
do  and  make.  I  carved  a  rustic  sign  “Broadway,”  and  nailed  it  to  a  coco¬ 
nut  tree  in  front  of  the  hut.  Attracted  by  the  hammering  Ginger  came  out 
to  see  what  was  going  on.  “The  final  touch,”  I  said.  “Every  town  has  a 
Broadway.  Here  it  is.” 

For  the  moment  there  seemed  to  be  no  more  worlds  to  conquer  on 
Cocos.  We  began  to  feel  constricted.  In  a  small  way  the  same  thing  was 
happening  to  us  that  happens  to  society  at  large  when  its  activities  reach  a 
stalemate.  During  our  busy  creative  period  we  had  been  happy.  In  theory, 
we  should  have  been  happy  in  the  enjoyment  of  the  things  that  we  had 
created,  since  all  the  world  agrees  that  leisure  plus  security  is  the  summum 
bo?ium,  the  ultimate  aim  of  human  activity.  Well,  we  had  it,  and  by  all  the 
rules  we  should  have  been  happy.  That  we  were  not  was  not  altogether 
due  to  the  conditions  of  life  on  Cocos.  Happiness  is  an  active  principle;  it 
comes  from  the  harmonious  exercise  of  all  the  faculties.  It  seems  that  the 
stream  of  life  turns  back  upon  the  man  who  fails  to  use  it.  Freedom  from 
life's  uncertainties  and  hazards  wasn't  the  “good  life”  at  all,  we  found. 

We  went  into  the  hut  one  day,  and  sat  down  upon  the  lounge  to  talk  it 
over.  We  were  both  suffering  from  the  same  illness;  we  were  restless  and 
bored.  “Well,  let's  try  exploring  next  month,”  Ginger  suggested.  “The 
island  has  never  been  accurately  mapped  and  thoroughly  explored — authori¬ 
ties  say  it  can't  be  done  because  the  cliffs  are  unscalable.  I’d  like  to  see  if 
there  is  a  lake  in  the  unexplored  interior.” 

The  accounts  of  this  lake  always  had  a  mythological  flavour  that  had 
filled  us  with  the  greatest  scepticism.  One  of  the  hoards  of  pirate  gold  is 
supposed  to  be  cached  on  its  shores.  How  this  could  be  done,  in  view  of 
the  fact  that  empty-handed  men  have  been  unable  to  scale  the  cliff's,  has 
never  been  satisfactorily  explained.  One  tale  that  recounts  how  two  ship- 


The  Last  Adventure — Cocos  Island  393 

wrecked  sailors  found  the  lake,  built  a  thatched  hut  on  its  shores,  and  made 
a  dugout  in  which  they  hunted  ducks,  is  one  of  the  minor  masterpieces  of 
Cocos  fiction.  \\  hy  two  shipwrecked  sailors  would  travel  inland  to  set  up 
housekeeping  on  the  shores  of  a  tiny  lake  was  never  made  clear.  For  ducks 
to  fly  three  hundred  and  fifty  miles  across  storm-tossed  waters  to  take  up 
residence  upon  a  lake  on  a  little  island  only  four  miles  in  diameter  was  an 
added  touch  that  would  discredit  even  a  duck’s  intelligence. 

We  laid  in  a  good  supply  of  food  so  that  we  should  not  have  to  spend 
so  much  time  foraging,  and  on  the  first  clear  day  started  up  the  stream 
which  ran  beside  the  hut.  It  cascaded  down  the  rugged,  jungle-covered 
mountains  that  formed  the  canyon  through  which  it  coursed. 

For  a  mile  we  followed  what  had  once  been  a  trail  probably  used  by 
treasure  hunters,  but  now  so  overgrown  that  we  had  to  cut  our  way.  The 
stream  s  banks  were  lined  with  a  dense  growth  of  vines,  ferns,  and  tall 
trees.  The  ferns  were  infested  with  red  fire  ants,  an  exceptionally  vicious 
variety.  They  do  not  raise  welts,  as  do  many  kinds  of  jungle  ants,  but 
cause  a  painful  rash.  By  carefully  cutting  a  trail  wide  enough  to  avoid 
brushing  against  the  ferns  we  managed  to  escape  most  of  these  pests. 

These  ants,  and  a  little  gnat  that  made  its  appearance  in  great  swarms 
at  each  full  moon,  were  the  only  insects  that  ever  troubled  us  on  the  island. 
There  are  no  snakes  and  we  found  only  one  variety  of  spider.  It  was  large, 
sometimes  three  inches  in  diameter,  but  harmless.  We  could  seldom  get 
close  to  one;  if  we  touched  it  with  a  twig,  it  would  run. 

The  only  other  mammals  besides  the  deer  and  the  pigs  were  cats  and 
rats.  The  cats  were  of  the  domestic  variety  gone  wild,  and  would  not  prey 
upon  the  rats,  eating  instead  the  young  pigs  and  birds.  At  low  tide  there 
are  a  number  of  round  stones  exposed  on  the  beach,  and  often  at  dawn  or 
just  after  sunset,  we  would  see  one  of  these  stones  come  to  life  in  a  wild 
leap  upon  some  unsuspecting  bird.  The  cats  curled  up  among  the  stones 
until  a  bird  approached  within  leaping  distance;  then  the  cat  unwound  like 
a  coiled  steel  spring  and  brought  it  down. 

Colnett  said,  “The  common  ratts  were  in  great  abundance,  as  we  found 
many  of  their  nests  on  the  tops  of  trees  we  cut  down.”  They  were  still  in 
“great  abundance”  during  our  sojourn  on  the  island.  They  lived  for  the 
most  part  on  coco-nuts.  They  climbed  the  trees,  gnawed  off  the  nuts, 
chewed  a  hole  through  the  husk,  and  ate  the  meat.  When  the  hole  was 
large  enough  they  crawled  inside  and  finished  the  job. 

Our  greatest  difficulty  with  the  rats  was  to  prevent  them  from  gnawing 
holes  in  our  pillows  to  get  at  the  seeds  of  the  tree  cotton  with  which  they 
were  stuffed.  Ginger  made  several  attractive  pillows  for  the  lounge  and 
the  rats  soon  discovered  them.  We  trapped  them,  but  we  had  to  use  a 
different  kind  of  trap  each  time  to  fool  them.  Once  a  rat  was  caught  in  one 
type  of  trap,  all  the  others  gave  it  a  wide  berth.  We  kept  them  out  of  the 


S94  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

garden  by  hanging  the  captured  rats  at  the  points  where  the  others  en¬ 
tered. 

Another  Cocos  legend  is  the  size  and  ferocity  of  the  land  crabs.  But 
even  this  is  under  dispute.  One  treasure  hunter,  who  lived  on  the  island 
during  the  expedition  of  1932-33,  says  that  he  never  saw  a  land  crab  dur¬ 
ing  all  that  time.  Another  one-time  resident  of  Cocos  says  they  meet  you 
on  the  beach,  and  almost  “bite  your  toes  off.”  Colnett  reported  “.  .  .  and 
common  land  crabs  in  great  plenty/'  And  Colnett  was  right.  The  island  is 
infested  with  crabs,  but  they  are  harmless  to  man.  It  is  sometimes  reported 
that  they  climb  the  coco-nut  trees,  gnaw  off  the  nuts,  and  open  them  as  do 
the  rats.  With  this  we  do  not  agree.  While  we  sometimes  found  crabs  in 
the  trees,  we  doubt  that  they  go  there  for  nuts.  We  tried  feeding  the  crabs 
in  Ginger's  aquarium  coco-nut  meat,  but  they  wouldn't  touch  it;  their 
preference  was  for  green  vegetables — tender  growing  plants. 

The  most  notable  things  on  Cocos  were  the  ferns.  They  came  in  every 
type,  size,  and  variety  imaginable,  from  giant  tree  ferns  to  tiny  parasitic 
ferns  that  grew  on  the  trunks  of  trees.  An  elephant-eared  variety  grew 
occasionally  on  the  boles  of  palms. 

About  two  miles  up  the  stream  from  camp,  we  heard  the  roar  of  a  water¬ 
fall.  Scrambling  up  over  the  boulders  that  filled  the  narrow  gorge,  we  came 
upon  the  most  beautiful  cascade  that  we  had  ever  seen — lovelier  than  any 
in  the  Great  Plateau  country.  It  was  set  in  a  deep  box  canyon  as  in  a  pic¬ 
ture  frame.  A  great  log  wreathed  in  ferns  had  fallen  across  the  head  of  the 
gorge,  and  ferns  lined  the  steep  canyon  walls.  The  waterfall  tumbled  down 
into  a  deep  emerald  pool  fringed  with  peridot-coloured  mosses  and  ferns. 
It  was  not  high — perhaps  a  hundred  feet — but  its  beauty  lay  in  its  perfec¬ 
tion  rather  than  in  the  spectacular  nature  of  its  descent. 

Ginger  tugged  at  my  arm.  “Dan,  do  you  see  it?  Look,  there's  a  lovely 
woman.''  Puzzled,  I  turned.  “No,  no,''  Ginger  said,  “in  the  falls.  Look 
towards  the  top,  and  you  can  see  her  face  and  shoulders  sculptured  in  the 
rock;  the  lacy  sprays  of  the  water  form  her  tresses  and  skirt."  Then,  I,  too, 
could  see  her,  her  face  turned  towards  the  top  of  the  falls.  “Our  Lady  of 
Cocos,"  Ginger  named  her. 

I  sat  down  on  a  rock,  and  on  the  map  of  the  island  that  I  was  making 
inserted  the  legend,  “Our  Lady  of  Cocos  Falls." 

The  next  morning  we  paddled  out  of  the  channel,  formed  where  the 
bay  and  the  river  merge  at  high  tide,  and  started  towards  Morgan's  Point. 
We  were  going  to  explore  Chatham  Bay — and  way  points. 

This  was  Coco’s  first  canoe  ride.  Since  it  would  not  in  all  probability  be 
her  last,  Ginger  set  her  on  the  deck  so  that  she  could  get  used  to  it.  She 
had  grown  a  little,  but  she  was  still  a  clumsy  pup.  She  would  walk  along 
the  edge  of  the  deck  and  step  over  the  gunwale  with  one  foot,  sprawl  half 
over  the  side,  and  then  look  at  us  to  find  out  what  to  do  next.  Her  little 
face  looked  so  funny  and  solemn  each  time  her  foot  came  in  contact  with 


395 


The  hast  Adventure — Cocos  Island 

the  unsubstantial  air,  that  we  both  roared  with  laughter.  Coco  was  our 
daily  comic  strip.  And,  of  course,  each  time  that  she  came  near  to  falling  in, 
Ginger  would  rescue  her.  “Let  her  go,”  I  urged,  “and  see  what  she  will 
do.  It  s  better  to  let  her  fall  in  once,  and  get  it  over  with,  than  to  be  al¬ 
ways  watching  her  to  see  that  she  doesn’t.  As  soon  as  she  finds  out  that 
riding  in  the  canoe  is  easier  than  swimming,  we  won’t  have  to  worry 
about  her.” 

Finally  Coco  fell  in  with  a  splash.  Over  Ginger's  protests,  I  let  the  canoe 
drift  on  ahead,  and  then  waited  until  Coco  had  done  all  the  swimming  that 
she  wanted  to  do  for  a  while.  Ginger  picked  her  up  and  began  commis¬ 
erating  with  her.  Personally,  I  felt  that  I  had  done  Coco  a  service. 

The  wrecks  of  many  ships  were  scattered  offshore  along  the  coasts  ad¬ 
jacent  to  the  island,  and  the  chart  located  several  in  Wafer  Bay.  Lying  on 
deck  over  a  spot  where  the  chart  showed  a  sunken  ship,  our  heads  hanging 
over  the  side,  we  looked  through  the  crystal  clear  waters  to  the  white  sand 
and  rocks  below.  We  took  bearings  and  found  that  there  was  no  wreck  at 
the  place  indicated  on  the  chart.  The  canoe  was  allowed  to  drift  towards 
the  cliffs  on  the  north  side  of  the  bay.  Fifty  yards  further  on  we  found  the 
sunken  hulk,  partially  covered  by  drifting  sand.  Rough,  stormy  seas  had 
broken  the  wreck  apart  and  scattered  it  over  an  area  of  many  square  yards. 
Another  sunken  vessel  lay  not  far  away.  At  extreme  low  tide,  its  bow, 
pointing  shoreward,  was  visible. 

On  our  way  out  to  Morgan’s  Point,  we  passed  by  the  great  tunnel  that 
extends  all  the  way  through  the  cliff  to  the  cove  on  the  other  side.  The 
seas  were  not  rough  and  the  water  looked  deep,  so  we  cautiously  paddled 
into  the  entrance,  just  to  get  a  good  look  at  the  place.  Then  we  kept  right 
on  going.  The  cave's  average  width  is  about  eight  feet,  and  its  height 
approximately  twenty.  The  water  was  smooth  enough  until  we  reached  the 
centre  of  the  channel,  where  the  waves  coming  in  from  both  directions  met. 
They  tossed  the  canoe  high  into  the  air,  and  it  took  all  our  skill  with  the 
paddles  to  keep  from  being  dashed  against  the  sheer  rock  sides  of  the 
tunnel.  We  were  glad  to  emerge  with  whole  skins  into  the  quiet  waters 
of  the  bay  on  the  other  side. 

We  paddled  along  the  black,  precipitous  cliffs  towards  a  small,  white, 
cone-shaped  island  of  sedimentary  formation.  Here  we  paused  to  make  a 
sketch  of  the  bay,  and  to  take  compass  bearings  in  order  to  chart  the  coast 
line.  When  we  were  leaving,  Ginger  said  that  we  ought  to  name  the  island 
and  the  little  cove  inshore.  She  suggested  that  since  many  of  the  land¬ 
marks  of  Cocos  had  been  named  for  famous  explorers,  and  since  Drake’s 
name  appeared  nowhere  on  the  map,  that  we  call  them  Drake’s  Island  and 
Drake’s  Cove. 

When  we  reached  the  channel  between  Colnett  Point  and  Nuez  Island, 
the  water  became  very  choppy,  with  a  strong  current  running.  At  ebb  tide 
the  current  sets  west  at  about  three  knots,  and  on  the  flood  tide  it  sets 


S96  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

east  with  a  speed  of  one  knot.  The  current  would  probably  be  much  swifter 
during  the  spring  or  neap  tides.  We  found  the  current  offshore  Nuez  Island 
travelled  at  a  rate  of  two  knots  in  a  north-westerly  direction. 

Nuez  Island  is  bold,  high,  and  topped  with  brilliant  green  vegetation. 
There  is  a  fairly  large  cove  on  the  inshore  side.  Some  of  the  legends  say 
that  treasure  is  buried  in  this  cave. 

When  we  got  to  Chatham  Bay  we  found  it  to  be  even  more  beautiful 
in  the  daylight  than  it  had  seemed  in  the  dawn,  when  we  first  saw  it  from 
the  Santa  Rosa* s  decks.  But  it  still  did  not  have  the  gorgeous  setting  of 
Wafer  Bay.  Two  canyons  open  on  to  the  beach,  forming  two  heavily- 
wooded  flats.  Tumbling  down  the  cliffs  on  the  west  side  of  the  bay  are  two 
beautiful  waterfalls.  The  most  westerly  tumbles  from  a  sheer  ledge  into 
deep  water;  it  is  reported  that  from  this  fall  the  pirates  of  old  secured  their 
fresh  water.  To  the  east  of  the  larger  canyon  is  a  high  hogback  covered 
with  razor  grass,  with  what  appears  to  be  a  zigzag  trail  leading  down  over 
the  top  of  the  ridge.  The  water  in  Chatham  Bay  is  clearer  than  it  is  in 
Wafer  Bay,  and  full  of  fish.  On  the  boulders  that  lined  the  beach  we  could 
see  the  names  of  many  ships.  Most  of  them  bore  the  names  of  modern 
yachts  and  tuna  boats,  but  some  were  marked  with  the  names  of  famous 
old  ships,  long  lost  in  time.  The  earliest  decipherable  date  was  1710,  but 
there  were  weather-worn,  unreadable  dates  that  might  have  been  earlier 
than  this. 

We  landed  the  Vagabunda  on  the  sand  beach  and  started  to  explore. 
Back  among  the  palms,  we  found  a  pathetic  shelter  probably  made  by  the 
victim  of  a  shipwreck.  Walking  up  the  stream,  we  entered  a  beautiful  deep 
canyon  shaded  by  huge  trees.  A  mile  further  on  was  a  second  shelter — a 
log  enclosure  about  four  feet  high.  Scattered  about  was  every  conceivable 
thing  that  one  might  salvage  from  a  shipwreck.  There  were  tin  cans,  pieces 
of  life  preservers,  rusted  lanterns,  clothing,  milk  bottles,  two  water  casks, 
rotted  line,  wire  and  gear,  and  cooking  utensils.  Filth  and  debris  were  piled 
two  feet  deep  round  the  place.  Ginger  shuddered  as  I  began  looking  round 
to  see  if  I  could  find  anything  we  could  use.  “Dan,  I  don't  think  we  want 
anything  from  this  mess,  even  though  we  could  use  it.  I’d  rather  not  have 
it  round  our  camp." 

“All  right,"  I  agreed,  and  threw  away  a  piece  of  iron  I  had  picked  up. 

“I  wonder  why  they  ever  came  up  here  to  build  a  hut  in  the  first  place," 
Ginger  speculated,  “when  they  could  have  built  it  down  on  the  beach 
where  it  is  drier?  There,  they  could  at  least  have  kept  it  cleaner  by  dumping 
their  refuse  into  the  bay  for  the  tide  to  take." 

“I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  I  answered.  “Think  of  the  things  that  people 
do  that  can't  be  figured  out  on  the  basis  of  common  sense;  they  do  them 
without  thinking,  I  suppose.  Let's  get  out  of  here,  the  place  gives  me  the 
creeps." 

We  cut  over  to  the  east  side  of  the  stream  on  the  return  journey.  Just 


397 


The  hast  Adventure — Cocos  Island 

before  we  arrived  on  the  beach,  we  came  across  the  trail  we  had  seen  from 
the  bay,  leading  up  to  the  hogback.  It  was  completely  overgrown  with 
tough,  sharp,  razor  grass,  and  in  places  had  been  washed  away  by  the  rain. 
We  abandoned  the  attempt  to  follow  it,  and  zigzagged  our  own  way  to  the 
crest.  On  its  flat  top  was  a  great  yawning  hole,  where  some  one  had  dug  for 
treasure.  There  was  a  magnificent  view  of  Chatham  Bay  from  the  point, 
and  I  took  bearings  for  the  chart.  The  balance  of  the  day  was  spent  in 
charting  the  bay  between  Colnett  Point  and  Pitt  Head. 

The  next  day  we  hiked  along  the  beach  of  our  own  bay  to  Pirate  Cove. 
The  cove  itself  is  merely  an  indentation  in  the  coast  line  between  two  cliffs, 
but  directly  in  back  of  the  cove  is  an  extensive  flat  which  tallies  with  the 
description  of  the  site  of  the  mythical  millions  buried  by  Captain  Thomp¬ 
son,  after  he  decamped  with  the  Peruvian  treasure.  The  Captain's  map, 
the  reader  may  remember,  fell  into  the  hands  of  two  Newfoundland  sailors, 
Keating  and  Bogue.  Bogue  was  murdered,  or  “fell  into  the  surf  and  was 
drowned,"  his  pockets  loaded  with  loot,  while  he  was  trying  to  get  back 
to  his  ship  to  quell  the  mutineers.  Keating  always  refused  to  tell  any  one 
where  they  had  discovered  this  bonanza,  but  his  second  wife  said  that  “it 
is  in  a  bay  with  a  little  beach  shaped  like  a  crescent,  with  black  rocks  on 
either  side  and  hidden  from  the  open  sea." 

The  flat  was  so  thickly  overgrown  that  progress  was  difficult.  As  I 
stepped  forward  to  cut  a  path,  the  earth  seemed  to  open  up  under  my  feet, 
and  I  just  had  time  to  toss  my  machete  to  one  side  before  I  started  falling 
through  the  vines  to  fetch  up  on  the  bottom  of  a  pit  ten  feet  below.  “Damn 
those  treasure  hunters,"  I  yelled  in  response  to  Ginger’s  laughter. 

Ginger  hadn't  laughed  at  my  tumble,  she  said,  but  at  the  speed  and 
celerity  with  which  I  rid  myself  of  the  machete  when  I  started  to  fall.  I 
reminded  her  that  practice  makes  perfect;  and  she  reminded  me  that  long 
ago  in  Wilderness  Camp  I  had  said  that  if  one  became  sufficiently  expert 
in  using  a  machete,  his  chance  of  falling  on  it  was  about  one  in  a  million. 
Then  she  said  soberly,  “If  I  were  you  I  think  I’d  be  mighty  carelul  from 
now  on;  if  the  law  of  averages  works  out,  the  percentage  is  now  against 
you."  I  agreed  that  from  now  on  I’d  treat  the  machete  as  though  it  were 
a  stick  of  dynamite. 

We  gave  Pirate  Cove  a  thorough  examination,  finding  about  a  dozen 
treasure  pits.  Over  against  the  south  wall  of  the  cove,  the  large  boulders 
had  been  blasted  apart  with  dynamite.  Judging  from  the  amount  of  rock 
blown  up,  approximately  a  ton  of  powder  had  been  used  in  this  one  location. 

Our  next  expedition  was  across  the  ridge  that  divides  Wafer  and 
Chatham  bays.  On  the  crest  of  the  ridge  we  found  an  extensive  flat  covered 
with  great  trees.  Deep  pits  here  and  there  indicated  that  it  had  been  the 
scene  of  treasure  hunts.  This  ridge  led  back  towards  the  interior  of  the 
island;  we  followed  it  two-thirds  of  the  way  across. 

On  the  peninsula  between  Wafer  and  Chatham  bays,  the  treasure  hunt- 


398  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

ers'  trails  led  everywhere.  There  were  large  clearings  in  many  places. 
Some  of  them  had  evidently  been  made  by  Gissler  for  his  garden,  for 
coffee  and  mango  trees  grew  there.  In  other  places  the  brush  had  been 
chopped  off  and  piled  to  one  side,  with  the  stumps  left  standing. 

We  cut  down  the  steep  slope  on  the  eastern  side  of  the  ridge  and  fol¬ 
lowed  the  course  of  a  little  stream  back  to  our  own  flat.  All  along  the 
stream's  banks  were  tunnels.  Why  treasure  seekers  ever  picked  out  this 
particular  spot  to  dig  tunnels  in  will  always  remain  a  mystery;  it  must 
have  seemed  a  good  idea  at  the  time. 

Two  weeks  were  spent  in  exploring  the  interior  of  the  island.  We 
climbed  the  two  highest  peaks,  which  we  named  for  ourselves.  Dana  Peak 
is  2788  feet  high,  and  Virginia  Peak  1574  feet.  From  these  vantage  points 
we  made  plane  table  maps  of  the  island,  charting  the  various  watercourses 
and  ridges. 

There  is  no  lake  or  "Bason"  in  the  centre  of  Cocos.  Colnett  got  the  idea 
from  the  many  streams  and  waterfalls  that  run  into  the  sea,  assuming  their 
source  to  be  a  lake.  Nor  were  there  any  ducks. 

We  had  finished  exploring  the  island  on  foot,  and  were  preparing  to 
circumnavigate  it  in  order  to  map  its  coast  line  accurately,  when  I  decided 
to  climb  the  high  ridge  to  the  south  of  Wafer  Bay.  I  wanted  to  make  ob¬ 
servations  for  the  starting  point  of  our  chart.  Climbing  was  difficult,  be¬ 
cause  most  of  the  way  had  to  be  negotiated  on  hands  and  knees.  Reaching 
the  top,  some  distance  back  from  the  bay,  I  walked  along  the  hogback  to 
where  I  could  look  down  upon  the  bay  below.  It  was  raining,  and  I  fooled 
round  awhile  waiting  for  it  to  stop,  so  that  I  could  work  on  the  chart.  It 
began  to  grow  late,  and  I  knew  that  if  I  waited  much  longer  Ginger  would 
worry.  I  started  back  along  the  hogback,  looking  for  a  short  cut  to  camp. 
It  became  increasingly  difficult  to  walk  at  all,  for  the  rain  had  turned  the 
red  adobe  into  slippery  mud.  Several  times  I  slipped  and  fell,  as  I  started 
the  descent  down  the  steep  slopes.  And  each  time  I  fell  into  the  ferns  I 
collected  hordes  of  fire  ants.  My  whole  body  tingled  and  burnt  from 
their  stings.  Cutting  a  trail  was  almost  impossible  because  of  the  many 
rocks,  which  would  damage  the  machete's  blade  beyond  repair. 

I  stood  looking  at  the  steep  incline,  wondering  whether  I  could  make  it 
or  not,  when  for  no  reason  at  all  my  feet  slipped  out  from  under  me,  and  I 
crashed  to  the  ground.  A  sharp  pain  shot  up  the  nerves  of  my  arm.  I  rolled 
over  and  looked  at  my  right  hand;  the  first  and  second  fingers  were  almost 
cut  off;  bright  arterial  blood  spurted  from  the  long  diagonal  slashes.  At 
last  the  law  of  averages  had  caught  up  with  me — I  had  fallen  on  the 
machete. 

I  jerked  loose  the  leather  thongs  with  which  I  tied  the  gun  holster  round 
my  leg  in  rough  country,  and  tied  them  tightly  round  each  finger  to  form 
a  tourniquet.  The  now  useless  machete  I  hid  at  the  base  of  a  tree.  Dizzy 
and  nauseated,  I  faced  the  long  descent  to  camp.  Never  before  had  I  realized 


The  Last  Adventure — Cocos  Island  $99 

how  difficult  it  is  to  travel  without  cutting  a  trail;  the  leathery  vines  and 
clinging  growths  wrapped  themselves  round  my  legs  and  arms.  Most  of 
the  way  all  I  could  do  was  slide — and  sliding  through  fern  brakes  lined 
with  fire  ants  is  no  joke.  I  could  see  nothing  ahead,  and  only  hoped  that  I 
couldn’t  slide  over  the  edge  of  the  cliff  on  to  the  rocks  below. 

After  what  seemed  hours,  I  readied  the  creek,  covered  with  mud,  blood, 
and  ants.  As  I  began  wading  across  the  stream  to  camp,  I  saw  Ginger 
hurrying  up  the  trail  which  I  had  taken  earlier  in  the  day.  "Hey,”  I  shouted, 
"where  are  you  going?” 

"Oh,”  said  Ginger,  running  towards  me,  “I  was  just  starting  out  to 
look  for  you.  Are  you  hurt?” 

I  dissembled  a  little.  ‘Its  nothing.  I  just  fell  on  that  damned  machete.” 

But  Ginger's  face  went  white  when  she  saw  the  condition  of  my  fingers; 
they  were  crooked  and  lopped  over  to  one  side,  the  wide,  deep  gashes 
filled  with  clotted  blood.  She  helped  me  wash  off' the  mud,  ants,  and  blood 
in  the  stream,  and  then  we  went  into  the  hut  to  dress  the  fingers.  We 
straightened  them  out,  bound  splints  round  them,  and,  when  they  con¬ 
tinued  to  bleed  after  removing  the  tourniquets,  wrapped  them  securely  in 
bandages  soaked  in  a  mild  solution  of  permanganate.  When  the  dressing 
was  completed,  Ginger  made  a  sling  for  my  arm.  After  that  I  began  pacing 
the  floor  and  cussing.  It  was  not  only  the  pain,  which  was  bad  enough,  but 
the  idea  that  I  would  be  laid  up  and  useless  for  weeks  made  me  mad.  My 
trigger  finger  would  probably  be  numb  and  useless  from  now  on,  for  the 
machete  had  cut  through  the  nerves  and  almost  through  the  bone.  Of 
course  I  might  learn  to  shoot  with  my  left  hand,  and  already  I  was  fairly 
proficient  with  the  machete  in  that  hand. 

Ginger  was  patient,  and  let  me  pace  and  cuss  to  my  heart’s  content.  She 
set  the  table  for  dinner,  and  when  I  showed  no  interest,  sat  down  and 
nibbled  at  her  own.  I  was  too  provoked  and  nauseated  to  think  of  eating. 

We  are  both  extremely  susceptible  to  each  other’s  moods  and  misfor¬ 
tunes.  Ginger  told  me  afterwards  that  she  had  had  a  very  queer  feeling  about 
me  that  day.  She  knew  that  something  was  wrong,  so  that  when  I  failed 
to  show  up  she  had  started  out  to  hunt  for  me. 

The  experience  taught  us  both  a  lesson.  For  the  next  week  I  was  idle 
for  the  first  time  since  we  had  landed  on  Cocos.  I  became  cross,  dissatisfied, 
careless  about  my  appearance,  and  generally  miserable.  Everything  Ginger 
said  or  did  irritated  me.  Finally  one  night  at  supper,  she  balked.  "Dan, 

I  think  there’s  something  we  ought  to  talk  over.” 

"I  know;  I’m  crabby,  lazy,  and  selfish.” 

"You  know  why,  too,  don’t  you?”  she  said.  "You’re  feeling  sorry  for 
yourself.  Tomorrow  let’s  begin  the  day  with  a  game  of  golf,  both  of  us 
using  only  our  left  hands.  And  how  about  a  swimming  race,  holding  our 
right  hands  out  of  the  water?” 

From  then  on  I  went  ahead  with  my  regular  duties,  finding  that  I  could 


400  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

manage  almost  as  well,  allowing  for  more  time,  with  one  hand  as  with 
two.  I  even  managed  to  chop  wood. 

Then  one  evening,  while  were  were  sitting  at  the  supper  table,  we  heard 
the  sound  of  a  ship’s  bell.  We  jumped  up  from  the  table  and  ran  out  of  the 
hut,  but  there  was  no  ship  in  the  bay. 

That  night  we  were  awakened  by  the  sound  of  something  crashing 
against  the  roof  of  the  hut.  We  scouted  round  in  the  darkness,  but  could 
discover  no  cause  for  the  noise.  The  next  day  we  found  that  a  coco-nut  had 
fallen  from  a  near-by  tree  and  landed  on  the  roof. 

A  few  days  later,  while  we  were  pulling  weeds  from  the  garden,  some¬ 
thing  thumped  to  the  ground  beside  us.  Ginger  ran  over.  “Ye  gods!”  she 
exclaimed,  “it’s  raining  fish!’’  We  stared  at  it  in  amazement,  and  then 
looked  at  the  sky,  but  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  except  the  clouds  that 
sent  down  a  light  drizzle  of  rain.  We  knew  that  man-of-war  birds,  fighting 
over  the  spoils,  had  probably  dropped  that  fish.  But  for  the  moment,  we 
didn't  want  to  accept  any  factual  explanation  for  it — we  wanted  it  to  be 
mysterious.  Everything  else  about  the  island  had  a  haunted  quality.  Why 
not  a  rain  of  fishes? 

Then  we  heard  the  roar  of  a  motor  boat  out  in  the  bay — but  there  was 
no  boat  there.  It  was,  obviously,  the  echo  and  re-echo  of  a  squall  on  its 
way;  the  sounds  of  wind-lashed  water  out  to  sea  carried  in  and  deflected 
on  the  stone  faces  of  the  cliffs.  But  this,  too,  seemed  to  warrant  some  mys¬ 
terious  explanation. 

We  talked  the  matter  over  that  night.  Bit  by  bit  we  were  beginning  to 
lose  our  common  sense.  As  we  reviewed  the  last  two  weeks,  contrasting 
them  with  the  ones  that  had  gone  before,  it  was  easy  to  see  what  was 
happening.  We  had  done  nothing  since  my  injury,  except  to  play  or  putter 
about.  Ginger  had  written  my  diary  for  me  while  my  hand  was  sore,  but 
that  night  I  did  it  myself.  My  fingers  were  still  stiff  and  numb,  but  I 
managed  after  a  fashion. 

The  next  day  we  began  making  preparations  for  the  trip  round  the 
island.  Even  Coco  sensed  the  change.  She  frisked  about  so  much  that  we 
thought  she’d  wear  herself  out  long  before  we  started.  She  ran  to  the 
beach  and  barked  at  the  sandpipers  on  the  shore.  Then  she  barked  at  the 
rats  in  the  coco-nut  trees.  She  even  teased  old  Spike,  our  pet  deer,  until 
he  put  her  in  her  place  with  a  slap  of  his  hoof.  When  we  put  on  her  home¬ 
made  harness,  she  became  almost  delirious  with  excitement,  for  she  knew 
that  this  meant  a  canoe  trip.  One  of  the  breeds  of  Costa  Rica  from  which 
Coco  was  descended  must  have  been  the  seal,  for  she  loved  the  water. 
She  often  entirely  submerged  her  head  in  the  creek,  trying  to  fish  out  some 
bright-coloured  stone  or  leaf  lying  on  the  bottom. 

Just  as  we  were  ready  to  leave  the  following  morning  we  did  hear  the 
roar  of  a  motor  boat — there  was  no  doubt  about  it  this  time — and  we  ran 
down  to  the  beach.  A  mahogany  motor  boat,  her  bright  work  glistening, 


401 


The  Last  Adventure — Cocos  Island 

was  speeding  across  the  bay.  As  she  came  in  close  to  the  beach,  we  waded 
out  to  meet  her.  The  boat's  occupants  were  as  surprised  to  see  us  as  we 
were  to  see  them;  they  had  not  expected  to  find  any  one  living  upon  the 
island.  They  said  that  when  they  first  sighted  our  hut,  they  half  expected 
to  find  pirates  or  savages  living  there,  and  so  came  in  cautiously.  Such  is 
the  fame  of  Cocos. 

The  motor-boat  party  had  come  round  from  Chatham  Bay,  where  their 
yacht  was  anchored,  to  do  some  fishing  in  Wafer  Bay.  We  invited  them 
ashore.  While  Ginger  entertained  those  who  were  interested  in  our  hut 
and  the  things  we  had  made,  I  took  several  of  the  men  hunting.  They  wanted 
to  shoot  a  deer,  but  I  convinced  them  that  since  there  were  only  six  adult 
deer  and  a  couple  of  fawns  on  the  island,  it  might  be  a  good  idea  to  wait 
and  give  the  deer  a  chance. 

When  the  yacht  was  ready  to  leave  Chatham  Bay,  the  owner  offered  to 
take  us  back  to  the  States.  We  refused  the  invitation,  although  we  were, 
and  we  admitted  it,  a  little  homesick.  But  this  was  a  test  trip,  and  we 
wanted  to  be  quite  sure  that  we  were  qualified  adventurers  before  returning 
home. 

The  yacht  carried  away  the  accumulation  of  letters  that  we  had  written 
since  coming  to  the  island,  and  several  rolls  of  exposed  film.  We  were  par¬ 
ticularly  glad  to  have  the  pictures  developed  before  sweating  ruined  them, 
as  it  had  all  the  ones  we  took  in  the  “Forbidden  Land."  But  Cocos  seemed 
twice  as  lonely  after  the  yacht's  departure. 

We  then  made  the  planned  exploration  trip  round  the  island.  In  re¬ 
charting  the  coast  we  found  the  maps  in  use  were  far  from  accurate.  The 
southern  side  of  Cocos  consists  of  sheer  cliffs  that  rise  precipitously  from 
the  water's  edge.  Many  little  streams  cascade  over  their  faces.  Rounding 
Dampier  Head  we  came  upon  an  indentation  of  the  coast  line  which  was 
filled  with  coco  palms,  and  just  west  of  it,  where  the  map  showed  only  a 
dotted  line,  we  found  a  beautiful  little  cove,  which  we  named  Cortez  Cove. 
Still  further  west  on  the  island  we  found  a  headland  that  had  not  been 
charted,  and  this  we  called  Lamb's  Head.  North  of  Lamb's  Head  is  a  wide 
gorge  with  many  palm  trees,  the  cliff's  on  each  side  of  it  forming  a  small 
bay.  Ginger  went  into  raptures  over  its  beauty,  so  I  marked  Ginger’s  Bay 
upon  our  own  chart.  Due  to  the  rough  seas  and  heavy  rain  squalls,  the  trip 
was  difficult,  so  that,  our  charting  done,  we  were  more  than  glad  to  get 
back  to  Wafer  Bay. 

My  fingers  by  this  time  had  limbered  up  enough  to  be  of  some  use, 
although  they  were  still  numb.  Whenever  I  picked  up  anything  I  had  to 
identify  the  object  by  glancing  at  it,  for  there  was  no  sense  of  touch  in  my 
finger  tips. 

Our  next  plan  was  to  emulate  Robinson  Crusoe.  We  had  often  wondered 
how  far  any  one  would  get  using  the  equipment  that  Defoe  gave  his  famous 
castaway.  We  intended  to  repair  the  old  scow,  rig  up  a  leg-of-mutton 


402 


Enchanted  Vagabonds 

sail,  and  make  a  pair  of  big  oars  to  propel  it  in  case  we  had  no  wind;  then 
to  go  aboard  with  the  machete,  our  home-made  hammer,  a  few  nails,  a 
sheath  knife,  and  our  mess  kit.  The  idea  was  to  sail  the  scow  round  to  one 
of  the  coves  on  the  southern  side  of  the  island,  wreck  it,  and  from  then  on 
see  how  it  felt  to  play  Robinson  Crusoe. 

We  stowed  the  canoe  in  the  hut,  reinforced  the  fence  round  the  garden, 
and  carefully  packed  away  the  rest  of  the  equipment  where  it  would  be  safe 
from  the  weather. 

On  the  morning  of  July  3,  1935,  with  Coco  acting  as  mascot  and  figure¬ 
head,  we  worked  our  cumbersome  craft  out  of  the  little  channel  and  started 
across  Wafer  Bay.  Half-way  across  a  squall  struck  us.  We  certainly  fought 
to  manage  that  unwieldy  scow,  but  could  make  no  headway  against  the 
wind.  As  her  bottom  grated  on  the  shore  at  the  north  side  of  the  bay,  a 
breaker  struck  her  and  piled  us  up  on  the  beach. 

“If  this  is  what  you  call  playing  Robinson  Crusoe/'  said  Ginger  as  she 
grabbed  Coco  and  waded  for  shore,  “how  about  going  back  to  camp  and 
cooking  something  to  eat?  I'm  beginning  to  miss  my  little  cookstove  al¬ 
ready." 

We  unloaded  the  scow,  dragged  it  as  high  on  shore  as  we  could  get  it, 
and  then  walked  back  to  camp,  bending  our  heads  before  the  torrents  of 
rain  sweeping  in  from  the  open  sea.  “Every  cloud  in  the  Pacific  apparently 
makes  a  detour  to  drop  its  moisture  on  Cocos,"  Ginger  remarked,  streams 
of  water  running  off  the  tip  of  her  nose.  And  it's  true.  The  island  seems 
to  attract  the  storms  and  the  wind  as  though  it  were  a  magnet. 

Back  in  camp  we  came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  was  probably  a  good 
thing  that  we  hadn’t  been  able  to  start  on  the  trip.  The  next  day  was  the 
Fourth,  and  we  hadn't  celebrated  it  for  two  years.  We  had  a  fine  time, 
and  so  did  Coco,  who  went  into  ecstasies  over  the  home-made  firecrackers. 
The  day’s  program  consisted  of  a  golf  tournament,  a  track  meet,  and 
aquatic  events.  We  sat  down  that  night  to  a  dinner  table  gaily  decorated 
with  small  American  flags,  which  Ginger  had  made  from  notebook  paper. 

Two  days  later  we  set  sail  in  the  repaired  scow,  getting  out  of  Wafer 
Bay  without  further  difficulty.  As  we  rounded  Cascara  Island,  the  current 
caught  us  and  carried  us  down  through  the  channel  between  Colnett  Point 
and  Nuez  Island.  We  tried  to  work  the  clumsy  craft  closer  inshore  to  get 
out  of  the  strong  current,  but  as  it  swept  us  past  Pitt  Head,  we  had  to 
battle  simply  to  keep  from  being  carried  out  to  sea. 

No  Robinson  Crusoe  ever  had  a  wilder  voyage  than  we  made  in  that 
old  scow.  It  was  without  benefit  of  a  centreboard,  and  it  made  almost  as 
good  time  sideways  as  it  did  ahead.  A  squall  came  up  that  carried  us  round 
East  Point.  From  then  on  we  had  our  hands  full  keeping  off  the  rocks.  We 
missed  piling  up  on  Flathead  Island  by  an  eyelash.  It  was  no  part  of  our 
plan  to  be  blown  on  some  bird  rock,  with  a  stretch  of  shark-infested  water 
between  ourselves  and  the  mainland.  The  rain  descended  in  torrents,  blot- 


The  Last  Adventure — Cocos  Island  403 

ting  out  all  visibility  past  a  range  of  fifty  feet.  We  could  only  guess  at 
om  1  elationship  to  the  coast,  for  there  was  no  way  of  knowing.  Ginger 
bailed  continually  with  the  mess  kettle,  but  the  water  poured  in  faster  than 
she  could  bail  it  out.  As  the  boat  sank  lower  in  the  water,  Coco,  who  had 
taken  shelter  under  the  seat  in  the  bow,  began  to  whine.  When  the  boat 
pitched,  and  the  water  surged  forward  in  the  bow,  she  was  forced  to  swim. 
Shed  paddle  lound  in  the  water,  looking  pleadingly  at  us,  but  there  was 
nothing  we  could  do  to  relieve  her  misery.  We  dared  not  put  her  on  one 
of  the  seats,  because  she  would  most  certainly  be  washed  or  blown  over¬ 
board.  Right  then  and  there  we  ceased  being  heroes  to  Coco.  We  had 
failed  her  miserably.  But  we  had  our  own  troubles. 

Without  any  warning  the  bottom  under  our  feet  heaved  up  with  a 
splintering  crash.  A  wave  caught  the  boat,  and  spilled  us  into  the  seas. 
The  scow  was  aground.  We  frantically  grabbed  our  equipment.  As  Ginger 
picked  up  Coco  and  the  mess  kettle,  a  wave  slapped  her  on  the  back  and 
sent  her  sprawling.  Coco,  scared  out  of  her  wits,  swam  for  shore,  yowling 
mournfully,  Ginger  stumbling  after  her. 

I  ran  up  to  the  beach  with  the  gear  I  had  rescued,  and  then  started  back 
to  the  scow  which  was  fast  being  ground  to  pieces  by  the  breakers.  “Where 
are  you  going?"  Ginger  shouted. 

“To  get  the  rest  of  the  equipment,"  I  yelled  back. 

“But  we  have  everything,"  she  protested.  I  turned  and  walked  back 
to  where  she  stood,  and  looked  at  the  little  pile  on  the  rocks — machete, 
hammer,  and  mess  kit.  Ginger  wore  the  sheath  knife  on  her  belt.  The  only 
thing  missing  was  the  nails,  and  then  I  remembered  that  they  were  in  the 
mess  kit.  It  was  rather  a  shock  to  realize  that  this  was  all  the  equipment 
we  had.  Then  we  heard  a  grinding  crash,  and  turned  in  time  to  see  the 
last  of  the  scow  as  a  giant  comber  flattened  it  out  on  a  rock. 

We  picked  our  way  across  the  boulders  to  the  beach.  The  rain  had 
subsided  enough  so  that  it  was  at  least  possible  to  see  our  surroundings. 
“Oh,"  shouted  Ginger,  “we're  in  Ginger's  Bay."  This  was  a  break,  for 
it  was  one  of  the  few  spots  on  the  island  that  we  were  eager  to  explore. 
We  walked  back  in  among  the  coco-nut  trees,  and  up  along  the  little 
stream.  Further  back  in  the  canyon,  a  waterfall  tumbled  down  over  sheer 
cliffs.  Ginger's  Bay  was  even  lovelier  than  Wafer  Bay.  Climbing  to  a  little 
flat  beside  the  stream,  we  found  that  we  were  not  the  first  to  have  dis¬ 
covered  this  gorge.  There  were  ax  marks  on  the  trees,  but  they  were  very 
old.  To  one  side  lay  a  rotten  coco-nut  log  split  in  half.  We  decided  to  make 
our  camp  here.  When  we  cleaned  the  camp  site,  we  found  an  old  boarding 
spike,  a  rusted  sword  hilt,  and  an  odd-looking  eating  fork  with  only  two 
prongs. 

A  crude  palm  shelter  and  a  dinner  of  coco-nuts  served  us  for  the  first 
night.  The  next  day  we  salvaged  what  lumber  and  nails  remained  from 
the  wreckage  of  the  scow. 


404  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

But  following  in  old  Crusoe's  footsteps  wasn't  too  bad.  We  built  a 
small,  comfortable  hut,  equipped  it  with  rustic  furniture,  and  out  of  mud 
and  rocks  made  an  altar  stove  such  as  the  natives  use.  Light  cord  braided 
from  coco-nut  fibre,  and  nails  hammered  into  fishhooks,  provided  us  with 
fishing  outfits.  A  spear  fashioned  out  of  nails  enabled  us  to  add  crawfish 
to  our  menu.  We  made  a  crude  catamaran  out  of  balsa  logs,  and  by  paddling 
out  to  the  small  islets  offshore  secured  plenty  of  birds'  eggs.  Ginger 
brought  back  a  small  bird  from  one  of  these  expeditions  which  she 
christened  “Peep,"  because,  unless  it  was  stuffed  so  full  of  fish  that  it 
could  hardly  move,  it  chirped  constantly.  We  made  clothes  from  coco-nut 
fibre.  Ginger  fashioned  a  nobby  creation  for  herself — a  hula  skirt.  Any 
one  who  thinks  that  Crusoe  lived  a  life  of  leisure  ought  to  try  it  sometime. 
We  were  busy  every  minute  of  the  daylight  hours. 

Eventually  we  started  homeward  across  the  island.  It  took  us  two  days 
to  travel  the  four  miles  to  Wafer  Bay.  Not  only  was  travelling  through 
the  dense  growth  difficult,  but  we  had  to  carry  Coco,  who  couldn't  scale 
peaks. 

When  we  reached  camp  we  found  out  what  a  tropical  climate  can  do  in 
one  month.  Every  single  piece  of  equipment  was  either  rusted  or  mildewed. 
Most  of  the  food  was  spoiled.  Even  the  tent  which  we  had  so  carefully 
dried  and  packed  away  was  mildewed.  Mould  and  fungus  growths  were 
all  over  the  hut.  The  heavy  squalls  sweeping  in  across  the  bay  had  wrecked 
the  garden,  and  the  pigs  had  rooted  up  the  fence  and  finished  the  job.  The 
only  vegetables  left  were  the  beans  which  grew  high  on  the  fence,  and  the 
chiotes  which  had  climbed  the  trees. 

It  took  a  week  to  make  the  camp  habitable.  After  that  we  turned  our 
attention  to  treasure  hunting.  It  was  not  an  occupation  that  we  took  very 
seriously.  We  had,  like  everyone  else  who  comes  to  Cocos,  a  treasure  map. 
Ours,  also,  was  supposed  to  be  the  original  Thompson  chart.  There  are 
several  versions  of  this  chart,  but  it  really  doesn’t  make  much  difference 
which  you  use,  because  they  all  give  directions  that  you  can't  follow. 

On  the  north  side  of  Wafer  Bay  is  a  place  which  at  one  time  must  have 
been  a  high  cliff  accessible  from  the  beach,  but  which  is  now  covered  by  a 
landslide.  In  this  small  area  the  ground  is  pitted  with  treasure  seekers' 
excavations.  They  have  also  dug  many  caves  into  the  landslide,  but  none 
of  them  that  we  investigated  were  deep  enough  to  have  penetrated  into 
the  original  surface  of  the  cliff.  The  boulders  strewn  about  the  flat  near 
this  site  have  been  dug  under;  some  of  them  have  markings  carved  upon 
their  surfaces.  This  is  the  place  that  Gissler  believed  to  be  the  location  of 
one  of  the  pirates'  caches.  According  to  the  story,  the  pirates  rowed  ashore 
eleven  boatloads  of  treasure  at  high  tide.  After  the  tide  fell  they  hauled 
the  gold  to  the  foot  of  a  cliff.  They  rigged  up  a  derrick  by  sinking  an  eyebolt 
into  the  crest  of  the  cliff,  and  hoisting  the  treasure  on  to  a  ledge.  Above  the 
ledge  the  land  rises  fifty  yards  or  so  to  a  ridge  of  rock.  Beyond  the  ridge 


405 


The  hast  Adventure — Cocos  Island 

was  a  flat,  two  acres  in  extent.  The  pirates  hoisted  the  treasure  up  the  slope 
with  running  tackle.  It  was  then  thrown  into  a  natural  crack  in  the  rock, 
and  covered  with  earth  and  stones. 

Another  location  is  out  towards  the  point  on  the  north  side  of  Wafer 
Bay.  Here  the  treasure  hunters  have  blasted  the  soil  and  scenery  sky  high. 

We  were  well  acquainted  with  most  of  the  legendary  cache  sites  on  the 
island,  but  the  pirates  who  buried  the  gold  were  apparently  better  men 
than  the  treasure  seekers  who  came  after  them.  The  job  of  digging  where 
they  are  supposed  to  have  cached  their  loot  is  herculean.  One  such  place  is 
under  a  rock  which  is  only  exposed  at  very  low  tide.  The  directions  for 
finding  this  rock  are  simple.  One  walks  along  Wafer  Bay  to  a  point  where 
the  farthermost  rock  on  Morgan  Point  coincides  with  the  southern  face  of 
Cascara  Islet.  Keeping  these  objects  lined  up,  you  walk  directly  towards  the 
water  until  you  come  to  a  large  flat  boulder — under  the  boulder  lie  seven 
tons  of  buried  gold!  Finding  the  rock  was  easy,  but  digging  under  it  was 
something  else  again.  We  dug  down  until  we  struck  heavy  boulders.  The 
next  day  when  we  investigated  the  hole,  we  found  that  the  tide  had  com¬ 
pletely  filled  it  with  sand.  How  the  pirates  ever  dug  a  hole  beneath  that 
rock  big  enough  to  hold  seven  tons  of  gold,  with  the  tide  covering  the 
excavation  every  six  and  a  half  hours,  we’d  like  to  know. 

There  is  a  story  that  an  old  sea  captain  living  in  New  York  does  very 
well  for  himself  making  fake  charts  of  Cocos  treasure  caches.  I  think  he 
must  have  made  ours,  for  we  came  to  the  conclusion  that  whoever  drew 
it  had  never  been  to  Cocos  at  all. 

Even  an  authentic  treasure  chart  would  be  of  little  value  except  to  the 
man  who  drew  it.  It  would  be  intended  to  refresh  his  memory,  which  is 
not  the  same  thing  as  disclosing  a  secret  to  some  uninitiated  treasure 
seeker.  None  of  the  charts  state  definitely  that  either  Chatham  or  Wafer 
Bay  is  the  actual  location  of  the  supposed  horde.  If  we  were  doing  any 
digging,  our  choice  would  be  Ginger’s  Bay.  To  hunt  for  it  there  would 
require  a  crew  of  fifty  men  and  a  couple  of  steam  shovels.  Radio  locators 
are  of  little  use  on  Cocos  because  of  the  extreme  humidity,  black  sand 
strata,  and  the  saturated  soil.  The  physical  characteristics  of  the  island  are 
also  constantly  changing  because  of  the  frequent  landslides  and  the  fast¬ 
growing  vegetation.  The  treasure  seekers  themselves  haven’t  helped 
matters  any  on  the  northern  side  of  Cocos.  The  southern  side  has  largely 
escaped  their  attention,  but  they  have  blasted  and  dug  in  Chatham  and 
Wafer  bays  until  the  landmarks  have  become  unrecognizable,  if  the  older 
descriptions  are  to  be  believed. 

The  month  we  were  devoting  to  the  treasure  was  about  half  over  when 
we  came  upon  our  most  promising  find.  While  scouting  along  a  sedimentary 
cliff  on  the  south  side  of  a  canyon,  we  saw  a  large  slab  of  rock  set  into  its 
face.  It  looked  like  a  sealed  doorway,  half  buried  by  the  deposits  which 
had  swept  down  from  the  cliff  above.  We  cleared  away  the  tangled  growth, 


406  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

and  discovered  in  the  centre  of  the  doorway  a  round  hole  about  an  inch  in 
diameter.  This  corresponded  to  all  the  accounts  of  a  treasure  cache  in  a 
cave,  except  that  in  some  of  the  stories  the  hole  was  supposed  to  be  square. 

This  is  the  account  given  by  Admiral  Palliser,  who  heard  the  story 
trom  an  old  Newfoundland  fisherman  named  Fitzgerald,  who  in  turn  heard 
the  story  from  Keating.  Keating’s  authority  was  Captain  Thompson  him¬ 
self.  Thompson  told  him  to  go  up  the  bed  of  a  “stream  flowing  inland” 
(this  would  be  at  high  tide).  Here  he  was  to  measure  seventy  paces  west 
by  south.  Then,  against  the  skyline,  he  would  see  a  gap  in  the  hills.  From 
any  other  point  the  gap  is  invisible.  The  directions  from  this  point  were 
to  turn  north  and  walk  to  a  stream  where  he  would  see  a  rock  with  a 
smooth  face  rising  sheer  like  a  cliff.  At  the  height  of  a  man’s  shoulder 
from  the  ground  there  was  a  hole  big  enough  in  which  to  insert  your 
thumb.  By  thrusting  an  iron  bar  into  the  cavity  the  door  would  swing  out¬ 
ward — behind  it  lay  the  treasure!  This  is  the  cave  which  Bogue  and  Keating 
are  supposed  to  have  rediscovered. 

The  cave — this  is  Keating's  story — was  fifteen  by  twelve  feet,  and  con¬ 
tained  bars  of  gold  bearing  the  stamp  of  Peru;  also  a  quantity  of  coins, 
sacks  of  silver,  and  a  solid  gold  statue  of  the  Madonna.  Needless  to  say, 
we  were  elated  by  this  find,  and  planned  to  return  the  next  day  armed  with 
our  home-made  pick  and  shovel.  For  once  we  were  almost  sold  on  Cocos' 
treasure.  But  the  following  morning  I  was  awakened  before  daylight  by 
an  intense  pain  on  the  right  side  of  my  abdomen.  I  lay  in  bed  until  dawn, 
when  Ginger  wakened.  By  that  time  there  was  no  doubt  as  to  the  nature 
of  my  ailment — appendicitis.  The  possibilities  of  this  affliction  staggered 
us.  But  what  to  do? 

At  noon  my  temperature  was  101,  and  my  heart  action  had  noticeably 
increased.  Part  of  this  I  attributed  to  my  mental  condition,  for  the  nearest 
aid  was  three  hundred  and  fifty  miles  away,  and  if  .  .  .  well,  we  would 
have  a  job  on  our  hands.  Neither  of  us  talked  about  it.  Talking  only  made 
the  situation  seem  worse — and  it  was  bad  enough. 

I  took  two  boards,  salvaged  from  the  wreckage  of  the  huts,  placed 
them  together,  and  painted  a  large  sign  in  white  letters,  “Help.  Wafer 
Bay.”  I  was  too  sick  to  make  the  trip,  but  Ginger  hiked  up  the  tortuous 
trail  to  Chatham  Bay,  where  she  nailed  the  sign  to  a  palm  tree.  There  was 
just  a  bare  chance  that  some  boat  putting  in  for  water  might  see  it  in  time. 

After  she  had  gone,  I  began  making  a  set  of  operating  instruments.  I 
broke  two  razor  blades  in  half,  lengthwise,  and  fastened  them  to  wooden 
handles,  then  fashioned  flesh  clamps  out  of  fishhooks.  There  was  no  use 
acquainting  Ginger  with  my  plans  as  yet,  because  I  wasn’t  sure  that  the 
instruments  would  work. 

That  night,  when  the  pain  became  so  intense  that  sleep  was  out  of  the 
question,  I  crawled  round  the  floor  on  my  hands  and  knees,  and  gained 


The  Last  Adventure — Cocos  Island  407 

some  relief.  Our  only  medicines  were  iodine,  quinine,  and  permanganate 
of  potash.  There  was  no  benefit  to  be  derived  from  any  one  of  them. 

Things  were  pretty  bad  the  second  day.  Ginger  made  a  bowl  of  atole, 
the  thin  rice  gruel  that  the  Indians  swear  by,  and  I  drank  a  little  of  it. 
Then  I  told  her  that  I  was  going  to  take  a  walk  along  the  beach;  the  exer¬ 
cise  might  help.  She  wanted  to  go  along,  but  I  dissuaded  her.  There  was 
something  I  wanted  to  find  out,  and  I  wanted  to  be  alone.  Taking  my  gun, 
I  left  the  house. 

Within  sight  of  the  hut,  I  walked  slowly  down  towards  the  lower  end 
of  the  beach,  then  I  cut  back  to  one  of  our  hunting  trails.  The  small  pigs 
went  unmolested  this  time.  A  big  pig  was  needed.  An  old  sow  came  along, 
and  I  shot  her.  Ginger  would  hear  the  gun,  but  I  could  always  say  that 

I  had  missed  the  target.  The  operation  was  successful  with  one  exception _ 

I  couldn't  find  the  pig's  appendix.  The  instruments  only  required  a  few 
slight  changes,  however,  to  be  quite  efficient. 

When  I  laboured  into  the  hut,  empty-handed,  Ginger  looked  at  me 
questioningly,  but  I  said  nothing. 

That  night  we  faced  the  grim  situation.  The  poison  was  permeating  my 
system,  and  the  appendix  might  burst  at  any  time.  I  showed  Ginger  the 
instruments  that  I  had  made,  and  we  put  them  on  to  boil  in  a  solution  of 
permanganate.  Ginger  gave  me  three  of  her  largest  needles  which  I  heated 
in  the  fire  before  flattening  them  out  and  grinding  them  to  a  sharp  cutting 
edge.  One  was  bent  into  a  half  arc,  another  into  a  half  circle,  the  third  I 
left  straight.  We  made  thread  out  of  the  tender  palm  fibres,  which  was 
the  only  thing  that  we  could  think  of  that  would  dissolve  like  catgut.  We 
might  have  used  catgut  or  the  intestines  of  pigs,  but  we  were  afraid  of 
infection,  due  to  the  minute  spores  of  mould  that  found  their  way  into  all 
animal  matter  almost  immediately.  We  worked  until  late  that  night  making 
preparations  for  the  next  day's  operation.  We  had  decided  the  sooner  the 
better.  Every  hour's  delay  increased  the  danger  of  a  rupture. 

Our  work  finished,  we  sat  down  to  talk  it  over.  Ginger  had  had  her 
appendix  out  some  time  previously,  and  from  her  scar  we  had  an  approxi¬ 
mate  idea  of  where  to  look.  I  began  making  sketches  to  illustrate  how  she 
was  to  go  about  the  business,  but  every  time  I  mentioned  the  word  "oper¬ 
ation"  her  face  turned  dead  white.  Suddenly  she  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands.  "I  can't  ...  I  can't  do  it." 

"Well,"  I  said,  "we've  either  got  to  do  this  ...  or  you're  going  to  play 
gravedigger,  so  take  your  choice.  Of  course  you  can  do  it."  But  game  as 
she  was,  she  couldn't  steel  herself  to  the  task.  She  could  do  it,  she  said,  if 
it  were  possible  to  give  me  a  local  anaesthetic;  even  if  we  had  enough 
aspirin  to  dull  the  pain.  I  thought  of  making  some  palm  wine;  but  if  I 
stupefied  myself  with  liquor  and  something  went  wrong,  I  couldn’t  help 
her. 

Finally  we  concluded  that  I  should  begin  the  operation.  When  I  reached 


408  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

the  point  where  I  needed  help,  she  would  assist  me.  We  made  every  prepa¬ 
ration  that  we  could  think  of.  We  cut  ropes  for  lashing  my  legs  down,  and 
fastened  a  handle  to  her  tiny  mirror  so  that  she  could  hold  it  in  a  position 
for  me  to  work  by. 

Neither  of  us  slept  that  night.  The  leaden-footed  hours  passed  while  we 
lay  there  wide-eyed  and  unwilling  to  talk,  trying  to  suppress  our  fears.  All 
ordinary  channels  of  escape  seemed  closed.  When  tomorrow  came  would 
we  have  the  courage  to  act? 

In  the  morning  Ginger  got  up  white  and  shaken.  I  suppose  I  was  in  the 
same  state.  We  couldn't  eat — and  we  didn't  try.  This  was  August  20, 
1935.  We  grimly  went  about  the  task  of  laying  out  the  paraphernalia. 
Ginger  made  swabs  and  sponges  out  of  bandage  gauze.  We  mixed  a  solu¬ 
tion  of  potassium  permanganate,  and  threaded  the  needles.  We  were  ready. 
All  we  needed  now  was  nerve  enough  to  tackle  the  job.  The  operation  was 
to  be  performed  at  noon  when  the  light  was  best.  It  was  now  about  eleven- 
thirty. 

Ginger  stepped  outside  the  hut  to  compose  herself.  Then  I  heard  her 
scream.  I  hobbled  to  the  door  and  looked  out.  She  was  running  towards  the 
beach,  wildly  flinging  her  arms  about.  Suddenly  she  turned  round  and  ran 
back  towards  the  canoe  shed,  tore  the  canvas  covering  from  the  cockpit, 
and  again  headed  for  the  beach,  frenziedly  waving  the  canvas.  Out  to  sea  I 
could  discern  the  dim  outlines  of  a  small  ship  through  the  haze.  I  grabbed 
some  burning  sticks  out  of  the  stove  and  made  my  way  to  the  beach,  where 
I  built  a  smoky  fire.  But  the  boat  sailed  on  by  and  soon  disappeared  from 
sight. 

We  returned  to  the  hut,  discouraged  and  shaken.  To  see  a  boat  and  then 
have  it  fail  to  see  our  signals  was  worse  than  having  no  hope  of  help. 

I  lay  down,  and  Ginger  knelt  beside  me.  ‘‘Do  you  think  we  dare  wait 
another  day?"  she  questioned.  It  was  possible,  I  said,  but  pointed  out  that 
each  day's  delay  increased  the  inflammation.  ‘‘Please,  let’s  wait  until  to¬ 
morrow,"  she  pleaded.  I  agreed. 

Twenty-four  hours  more  of  uncertainty  to  live  through!  We  were  both 
drugged  and  weary  from  fatigue  and  the  prolonged  nervous  tension.  One 
o'clock  came  and  went.  Outside  there  was  a  thin  drizzle  of  rain,  and  the 
wind  sobbed  and  sighed  in  the  palms.  After  an  infinity  I  looked  at  my 
watch.  Two  o'clock.  Ginger  sat  silent,  her  face  bowed  in  her  hands. 

I  must  have  fallen  asleep,  for  when  I  first  heard  the  sound  I  thought  that 
it  was  part  of  a  dream. 

At  three  o’clock  the  bay  echoed  and  re-echoed  with  the  blast  of  a  ship's 
whistle.  We  looked  out  to  see  a  large  tuna  boat  steaming  round  Morgan 
Point,  ploughing  into  Wafer  Bay  at  full  speed.  Before  she  even  dropped 
her  hook,  a  small  boat  was  overside  and  speeding  shoreward. 

The  grimy  crew  of  the  tuna  clipper  raced  up  the  beach  towards  the  hut. 
Their  pockets  were  stuffed  with  soap  and  towels.  While  fishing  in  the 


The  Last  Adventure — Cocos  Island  409 

vicinity,  they  had  decided  to  put  into  Chatham  Bay  and  take  a  fresh-water 
bath,  and  going  ashore  they  had  seen  our  sign  asking  for  help.  .  .  . 

Forty-five  minutes  later  all  of  our  equipment  was  loaded  on  the  clipper; 
Ginger,  Coco  and  I  were  aboard,  and  I  was  packed  in  ice.  We  were  steam¬ 
ing  full  speed  ahead  towards  Puntarenas. 

To  Captain  W.  R.  Dobbs  and  the  crew  of  the  tuna  clipper  Fisherman  II 
I  owe  my  life.  The  famous  boat  that  once  belonged  to  Zane  Grey  had 
again  performed  an  act  of  mercy  on  the  high  seas. 


Chapter  Twenty-seven 


THE  END  OF  THE  TRAIL— PANAMA 

After  the  rescue  we  suffered  for  days  from  the  kick-back  of  emotional 
l  strain;  we  were  weak  and  exhausted.  Captain  Dobbs  and  his  crew 
did  everything  that  they  possibly  could  for  us.  The  Captain  even  offered  if 
necessary  to  give  up  the  chance  of  a  ten-thousand-dollar  tuna  catch  in  order 
to  rush  me  to  medical  aid.  During  the  three  days  we  steamed  toward  the 
mainland  I  began  to  feel  better,  though  I  darn  near  froze  to  death,  because 
the  ice  in  which  I  was  packed  was  made  from  brine.  The  pain  subsided 
and  my  temperature  went  down — it  was  103  the  day  I  was  rescued. 

Radiograms  from  our  parents  and  friends,  and  from  all  parts  of  the 
United  States  poured  in.  We  even  garnered  that  immediate  reward  of 
temporary  fame — or  notoriety:  an  offer  from  the  movies.  Needless  to  say, 
we  were  not  anxious  to  commemorate  the  horrors  of  the  Cocos  predica¬ 
ment  on  celluloid — we  wanted  to  forget  it  as  fast  as  we  could. 

At  Cape  Blanco  we  learnt  that  there  was  no  hospital  in  Puntarenas,  and 
that  I  would  have  to  be  transferred  to  San  Jos£.  Captain  Dobbs  then  sug¬ 
gested  that  as  long  as  the  ice-pack  treatment  seemed  to  be  helping  the 
appendix  it  might  be  a  good  idea  to  remain  on  board.  He  had  read  some¬ 
where,  he  said,  that  packing  in  ice  sometimes  cured  an  attack  of  appendicitis. 
So  we  cruised  along  the  coast  of  Costa  Rica  for  the  next  ten  days.  By  the 
end  of  that  time  I  felt  much  better.  On  the  return  trip  south  the  pain  dis¬ 
appeared  completely,  and  we  felt  like  travelling  again. 

Despite  the  Captain's  protests,  we  loaded  the  Vagabunda  overside,  but 
before  leaving  we  gave  Captain  Dobbs  a  letter  absolving  him  from  all 
responsibility  for  anything  that  might  happen  to  us.  Then  we  started  down 
the  coast  towards  Panama.  On  the  way  we  left  Coco  with  a  kindly  native 
family  who  had  never  seen  a  trained  dog  before  and  were  amazed  and 
delighted  when  she  responded  to  our  commands.  Although  we  hated  to 
give  her  up,  we  dared  not  take  her  into  the  Canal  Zone.  The  quarantine 
regulations  were  very  strict. 

When  we  finally  put  into  the  Canal  Zone,  it  seemed  that  we  were  going 
to  have  serious  difficulty  with  the  port  officials.  While  in  Corinto  we  had 
written  a  letter  to  the  Port  Captain,  stating  that  we  had  travelled  all  the 
way  down  the  coast  as  a  regular  ship,  carrying  the  same  ship's  papers 
that  a  ten-thousand-ton  freighter  would  carry,  and  if  possible  we  wanted 
to  transit  the  Canal  with  the  same  status.  We  said  that  we  had  read  the 


The  End  of  the  Trail — Panama  41 1 

Canal  Zone  regulations,  but  would  he  please  make  two  exceptions:  Would 
he  instruct  the  boarding  party  of  five  men  to  board  us  one  at  a  time?  And 
since  the  rules  called  for  a  “pilot  aboard  at  all  times"  would  he  please  pick 
a  small,  thin  one? 

As  we  pulled  into  the  harbour  of  Panama  word  was  sent  out  to  proceed 
to  a  position  between  piers  18  and  19  in  front  of  the  Pacific  Terminal 
Building,  where  the  offices  of  the  Port  Captain,  etc.,  were  located,  and  to 
hoist  our  quarantine  flag  and  stand  by.  We  obeyed.  But  earlier  that  day 
we  had  fought  a  tropical  storm  in  the  Gulf  of  Panama,  and  the  Vagabunda 
had  threatened  to  go  to  pieces  like  the  one  hoss  shay.  The  mast  split;  the 
boom  pulled  off;  the  zipper  round  the  cockpit  parted  at  the  fabric.  The 
V agabunda  was  clearly  on  her  last  legs,  and  it  seemed  doubtful  if  she  could 
make  port.  We  got  her  in,  but  it  was  a  dilapidated  pair  of  adventurers  in 
a  badly  battered  craft  that  paddled  between  the  two  long  docks  and  stood 
by.  Our  quarantine  flag  was  a  yellow  rag  tied  to  the  harpoon  shaft,  stuck 
in  the  mast  seat. 

While  we  waited  for  official  recognition,  crowds  lined  the  docks,  cameras 
clicked,  and  plenty  of  good-natured  ribbing  floated  to  us  across  the  water. 
Then  a  delegation  of  port  officials,  dressed  in  gold-braided  white  uniforms 
motioned  us  in.  They  were  stern  faced  and  most  businesslike.  “Let  me  see 
your  clearance  papers  for  this  port,"  one  said  curtly.  “I  will  examine  your 
bills  of  health,"  said  another.  A  third  began  asking  questions  and  filling 
in  a  form.  "Any  explosives  aboard?  Any  stowaways?  When  were  you  last 
fumigated?  What  is  your  fuel  consumption  per  hour?  Number  of  passenger 
accommodations?"  And  so  on.  Everyone  was  as  sober  as  a  judge  about  to 
pronounce  sentence.  We  were  scared  to  death. 

The  quarantine  officer  looked  over  our  bills  of  health.  “H-m-m,  you  have 
called  at  more  ports  than  any  ship  that  has  ever  gone  through  the  Canal," 
he  said.  “It  is  going  to  take  two  forms  to  list  them,  and  there  will  be  an 
extra  charge  for  that." 

The  Port  Captain  interrupted,  “While  we're  talking  about  charges,  do 
you  know  what  it  costs  to  transit  the  Canal?" 

“No,  sir,"  I  answered  meekly. 

He  cleared  his  throat  and  looked  at  us  sternly.  “Some  ships  pay  toll 
charges  of  as  much  as  thirty  thousand  dollars,  and  it’s  just  as  much  work 
to  put  your  little  sixteen-foot  craft  through  the  locks  as  it  is  to  put  through 
a  big  freighter.  We  have  to  open  and  close  the  gates  just  the  same,  fill  the 
chambers  with  water,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  Do  you  have  any  idea  of  what 
that's  going  to  cost  you?" 

Ginger  and  I  groaned.  This  was  something  that  neither  of  us  had 
thought  about.  Then  the  admeasurer  stepped  forward,  whose  job  it  is  to 
figure  the  displacement  of  the  ship  about  to  transit  the  Canal.  He  stood 
on  the  dock,  looking  down  at  our  tiny  cockpit,  and  then  stepped  gingerly 
into  it.  He  was  a  big  broad-shouldered  chap,  and  the  canoe  sank  about  six 


412 


Enchanted  Vagabonds 

inches  under  his  weight.  He  got  down  on  his  hands  and  knees,  working  his 
big  body  into  the  confines  of  the  cockpit;  unreeled  about  ten  inches  of  his 
hundred-yard  tapeline,  and  started  measuring  the  Vagabunda s  draught.  His 
shoulders  began  to  shake;  he  sputtered  and  gulped,  and  finally  abandoned 
all  efforts  to  suppress  his  mirth.  “Ha,  ha,  ha!”  he  roared.  We  looked  up 
at  the  dock.  All  the  other  officials  were  shaking  with  laughter,  too. 

Now  they  jerked  us  up  on  the  dock,  and  began  to  congratulate  us.  When 
the  crowd  surged  in,  almost  pushing  us  back  into  the  water,  the  Canal  Zone 
Police  rushed  to  our  rescue,  and  to  protect  the  canoe  from  the  usual  vandals 
who  had  come  armed  with  pocketknives,  intent  upon  souvenirs.  Then  amid 
the  cranking  of  cameras  and  the  shouts  of  the  bystanders  the  police  broke 
a  trail  to  the  main  dock  for  us — a  bedraggled,  salt-encrusted,  bewildered 
pair. 

Aboard  the  U.S.  army  transport  Chdteau  Thierry ,  we  were  given  the 
stateroom  reserved  for  high  army  officials.  Stewards  came  and  went.  Soap, 
towels,  and  clean  clothes  were  laid  out.  After  we  had  made  ourselves 
presentable  we  went  down  to  the  officers'  mess,  where  a  big  table  groaned 
under  all  the  dishes  that  we  especially  like  and  had  missed  for  three  years. 

While  we  were  eating,  port  officials  and  officers  crowded  round  us 
with  questions.  Their  curiosity  was  legitimate.  Any  one  who  would  come 
from  San  Diego  in  a  sixteen-foot  canoe  must  be  crazy,  and  they  wanted 
to  see  for  themselves  just  how  cracked  we  were. 

Then  in  came  the  Port  Captain,  his  face  wreathed  in  smiles  as  he  ex¬ 
tended  the  courtesy  of  the  Panama  Canal  Zone  to  the  crew  of  the  Vagabunda. 
The  admeasurer  appeared,  wearing  a  long  face  and  carrying  several  pieces 
of  paper  covered  with  figures. 

“Are  you  ready  for  the  sad  news?”  he  inquired.  “Feel  strong  enough  to 
take  it?” 

“We  might  just  as  well  get  it  over  with,”  I  answered. 

He  looked  as  though  he  would  like  to  smile — but  he  didn't.  Instead  he 
scowled.  “It's  been  a  big  job  to  figure  out  your  toll  charges.  And  the  best 
I  can  do  for  you,  young  man,  is — seventy-jive  cents .  When  do  you  want  to 
start?” 

“Tomorrow.”  And  right  then  and  there  we  paid  out  seventy-five  cents 
to  the  Canal  Zone  Administration.  But  we  didn't  begin  the  transit  of  the 
Canal  for  several  days. 

That  night  Commander  Brown,  U.S.N.,  entertained  us  at  his  residence. 
Some  one  poured  Ginger  into  an  evening  gown  whose  long  skirt  she  had 
an  awful  time  managing  after  three  years  of  shorts.  I  had  on  borrowed 
plumage,  too — a  white  suit  that  fitted  very  well.  Later,  after  the  party 
was  over,  we  shut  the  door  of  our  bedroom  and  surveyed  our  lovely  sur¬ 
roundings.  Ginger  walked  over  and  felt  the  bed. 

“It's  three  years,”  she  reminisced,  “since  we’ve  slept  between  linen 
sheets  on  a  spring  mattress.  Won't  it  be  swell?” 


413 


The  End  of  the  T?'ail — Panama 

And  how  we  would  sleep,  I  thought. 

But  the  next  morning  when  our  host  failed  to  waken  us  by  tapping  on 
the  door,  he  peeked  in.  We  were  sound  asleep  on  the  floor.  After  lying  on 
hard  surfaces  for  three  years,  we  couldn't  adjust  ourselves  to  the  soft 
mattress  in  one  night. 

As  guests  of  the  Army  we  spent  a  full  day  of  sightseeing,  ending  with  a 
night  at  Fort  Clayton.  Then  for  our  last  day  and  night  in  Panama  City,  the 
Navy  again  took  us  in  tow.  Luncheon,  a  cocktail  party,  and  tea  were  fol¬ 
lowed  by  a  dinner  party  which  Admiral  Williams  gave  for  us  aboard  his 
flagship,  the  U.S.S.S.  Memphis.  After  dinner  came  Ginger's  crowning 
moment.  As  she  stepped  on  deck  with  Mrs.  Williams,  feeling  very  elegant 
in  her  long  evening  gown,  the  assembled  sailors  snapped  to  salute.  We 
were  then  taken  to  see  our  first  motion  picture  in  three  years. 

The  next  day  we  started  through  the  Canal.  As  we  entered  the  chamber 
of  the  first  lock,  behind  a  big  ship,  we  were  surprised  at  the  number  of 
people  who  had  gathered  to  watch  the  smallest  vessel  ever  to  transit  the 
Panama  Canal  officially.  The  locks  began  to  fill,  and  the  Vagabunda  slowly 
rose,  as  millions  of  gallons  of  water  poured  into  the  chamber.  When  we 
reached  the  level,  the  gates  ahead  of  us  opened,  and  we  followed  the 
steamer  into  the  second  lock.  Men  had  the  canoe  by  ropes,  but  big  ships 
are  taken  through  the  locks  by  means  of  electric  donkeys. 

Now  the  gates  of  the  second  chamber  closed  behind  us.  Again  we  rose, 
this  time  to  the  level  of  Miraflores  Lake,  which  is  fifty  feet  above  the  sea. 
The  Canal  Zone  “mosquito  fleet"  met  us  in  the  lake,  and  escorted  us  with 
great  merriment  to  the  third  lock,  Pedro  Miguel  Lock,  which  is  on  the 
Pacific  side.  The  “fleet"  comprised  every  conceivable  kind  of  small  craft: 
kayaks,  motor  boats,  rowboats,  and  so  on.  The  Pedro  Miguel  Sea  Scouts 
were  also  out  to  convoy  us.  The  boys  had  planned  a  potluck  dinner  in  their 
club  house,  they  said.  Would  we  be  their  guests?  We  had  to  go  through  the 
locks  on  schedule,  but  promised  that  we  would  break  our  journey  after 
passing  through  Pedro  Miguel  Lock.  We  did,  and  had  a  fine  time. 

Paddling  through  the  Canal  was  fun  all  round.  Every  ship  that  passed 
whistled  a  salute.  Pilots  and  officers  waved.  In  Culebra  Cut,  we  stopped 
to  see  the  great  dredgers  at  work,  and  we  visited  the  Darien  Naval  Radio 
Station,  where  there  was  another  grand  party.  We've  never  been  able  to 
make  up  our  minds  as  to  which  takes  the  most  stamina:  a  round  of  fiestas, 
k  la  Elena,  or  transiting  the  Panama  Canal  in  a  canoe.  You  have  to  be  good 
to  do  either. 

We  crossed  Gatun  Lake,  the  largest  man-made  lake  in  the  world,  on  a 
squally  day,  and  did  not  arrive  at  Gatun  Locks  until  well  after  dark — wet, 
bedraggled  and  tired.  The  next  morning  we  made  the  descent  through  the 
locks  to  Limon  Bay,  which  is  accomplished  in  three  steps.  As  the  canoe 
zigzagged  her  way  through  the  chambers  that  lowered  her  to  sea  level, 
we  were  feeling  as  weary  and  battered  as  our  outfit  looked.  At  Cristobal  we 


414  Enchanted  Vagabonds 

moored  the  canoe  to  a  dock,  and,  while  waiting  for  Captain  and  Marie 
Fischer  to  arrive,  took  one  last  picture  of  the  Vagabunda  before  we  lifted  her 
from  the  water  for  the  last  time. 

There  she  sat,  her  hull  weatherbeaten,  scarred,  and  twisted  out  of  shape, 
the  names  of  a  hundred  ports  of  call  carved  in  the  railing  of  her  cockpit. 
For  her  a  life  of  adventure  had  ended. 

We  spent  a  week  in  Cristobal.  Then  the  Vagabunda  was  loaded  aboard 
a  passenger  vessel  and  we  three  transited  the  Canal  to  the  Pacific,  retracing 
in  seven  days  the  route  which  had  taken  us  three  years  to  cover.  We  had 
arrived  in  Cristobal  on  October  9,  1936,  three  years  to  the  day  after  leaving 
San  Diego. 

The  question  most  frequently  asked  us  since  our  return  is:  "How  does 
it  feel  to  be  back?"  That  is  not  an  easy  question  to  answer. 

We  left  the  United  States  at  the  height  of  the  depression,  and  returned 
to  find  things  booming — some  things.  Progress  along  scientific  and  me¬ 
chanical  lines  can  be  taken  for  granted.  But  what  of  social  relationships, 
the  things  that  really  count? 

1  am  afraid  that  we  no  longer  fit  into  the  picture.  While  we  were  a  p. 
of  organized  society  much  that  we  now  see  went  unnoticed:  the  increasing 
reluctance  and  inability  of  large  groups  to  solve  their  own  problems; 
people’s  growing  distaste  for  economic,  social,  and  political  freedom,  if 
it  entails  personal  responsibility;  their  willingness  to  barter  these  things 
for  some  one’s  promise  of  a  "larger  life,"  with  a  minimum  of  effort  on  the 
part  of  the  individual;  the  tendency  of  more  and  more  people  to  regard 
governmental  relief  agencies  as  a  "career";  their  naive  belief  that  a  political 
messiah  or  an  economic  formula  can  do  for  them  the  things  that  all  men 
must  do  for  themselves  or  perish. 

Another  disadvantage  to  living  in  a  civilized  society  is  that  there  is  no 
time  left  for  playing.  About  the  grimmest  thing  we’ve  seen  since  our  return 
is  the  "hot  spot,"  where  everybody  tries  so  damned  hard  to  relax — and 
boredom,  like  prosperity,  is  just  round  the  corner.  I  wonder  if  one  had  a 
million  dollars  to  spend,  and  combed  the  United  States  for  the  guest  list, 
whether  it  would  be  possible  to  throw  one  of  Elena’s  parties  and  get  the 
same  joyous  response? 

When  the  natives  work,  they  work  hard;  and  conversely — when  they 
play,  they  play.  Having  no  passion  for  getting  ahead,  the  fact  that  they  are 
behind  the  Joneses  in  no  wise  disturbs  them.  In  this  they  are  decidedly 
realistic,  and  it  is  we  who  are  foolish  and  impractical.  They  love  life  and 
live  it  while  they  are  able.  The  theory  that  it  is  desirable  to  forego  pleasure 
in  the  present  that  you  may  in  some  mythical  future  enjoy  the  provisions 
stored  up  for  the  rainy  day  would  leave  any  intelligent  Indio  cold.  Further¬ 
more,  he  isn’t  interested  in  exercising  power  through  the  possession  of 
things — he  suspects  that  you  can’t  take  them  with  you,  and  at  best  the 
tenure  is  brief. 


The  End  of  the  Trail — Panama  415 

Since  most  of  what  he  needs  he  produces,  he  naturally  doesn't  have  to 
cope  with  the  problems  that  beset  highly  organized,  interdependent  so¬ 
cieties.  Paris  may  decree  shorter  skirts  for  women,  and  the  edict  will 
affect  the  lives  and  fortunes  of  millions  who  never  heard  of  Schiaparelli  or 
Captain  Molyneux.  The  native  grower  only  knows  that  for  some  inex¬ 
plicable  reason  his  product — cotton,  wool,  silk— has  become  a  drug  on 
the  market.  For  him,  it  is  a  major  calamity. 

Of  course,  a  few  smart  people  in  an  organized  society  exercise  their 
foresight  and  escape — but  most  of  us  aren't  smart.  There’s  a  chance  to  beat 
a  malarial  mosquito,  because  Nature  gives  her  creatures  a  break.  When 
you  fight  disease,  you  aren't  fighting  something  you  are  totally  unequipped 
to  face.  The  problems  Nature  presents  you  with  can  for  the  most  part  be 
met  by  intelligence,  work,  discipline,  and  knowledge.  And  there  is  some¬ 
thing  else  to  be  said  for  wresting  a  livelihood  from  natural  resources:  there 
is  the  priceless  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  you’ve  taken  nothing  from 
any  one;  that  your  place  in  the  sun  isn't  contingent  upon  crowding  your 
fellows  into  outer  darkness. 

To  live  the  ‘'simple  life"  isn’t  easy;  it's  hard — if  you  hate  work.  But 
Nature  is  just,  or  so  it  seems  to  us.  The  results  of  your  efforts  are  concrete. 
If  you  fail  in  an  enterprise,  there  is  nothing  mysterious  about  it;  and  there 
is  always  something  that  you  can  do  to  prevent  its  recurrence.  Cause  and 
effect  are  not  obscured  through  a  hundred  intermediaries.  Thank  God, 
there  is  nothing  indefinite  about  natural  law;  if  you  live  in  accordance  with 
it,  study  its  inexorable  rules,  it  will  reward  you — and  the  slicker  can't  beat 
it.  Personally,  we  prefer  to  take  our  chances  with  its  hazards  rather  than 
attempt  to  fit  ourselves  into  the  confused  pattern  of  the  modern  social  order. 
Physical  injuries  and  hardships  may  damage  you,  but  they  are  soon  for¬ 
gotten.  The  psychic  injuries  of  a  competitive  life  are  too  high  a  price  to 
pay — for  us — in  exchange  for  its  dubious  benefits. 

Our  trip  was  made  for  purely  personal  reasons.  At  the  outset,  we  had 
no  particular  belief  in  its  interest  or  value  to  any  one  else.  That  perhaps  is 
the  written  record's  greatest  flaw.  Many  things  of  general  interest  that 
we  might  have  learnt  and  reported  are  obscured  by  the  personal.  Primarily, 
we  wanted  to  find  out  something  about  ourselves  and  our  capacities; 
whether  our  romantic  daydreams  of  a  fuller  and  more  colourful  life  could 
stand  up  against  the  actualities.  For  us,  these  questions  are  answered.  For 
whoever  reads  this  book,  who  knows? 


Some  of  the  other  titles  in  the  Adventure  Travel  Classic  series 
published  by  The  Long  Riders’  Guild  Press. 

We  are  constantly  adding  to  our  collection,  so  for  an 
up-to-date  list  please  visit  our  website: 

www.thelongridersguild.com 


The  Rob  Roy  on  the  Jordan 

John  MacGregor 

In  the  Forbidden  Land 

Henry  Savage  Landor 

From  Paris  to  New  York  by  Land 

Harry  de  Windt 

My  Life  as  an  Explorer 

Sven  Hedin 

Elephant  Bill 

Lt.-Col.  J.  H.  Williams 

Fifty  Years  below  Zero 

Charles  Brower 

Quest  for  the  Lost  City 

Dana  and  Ginger  Lamb 

Enchanted  Vagabonds 

Dana  Lamb 

Seven  League  Boots 

Richard  Halliburton 

The  Flying  Carpet 

Richard  Halliburton 

New  Worlds  to  Conquer 

Richard  Halliburton 

The  Glorious  Adventure 

Richard  Halliburton 

The  Royal  Road  to  Romance 

Richard  Halliburton 

My  Khyber  Marriage 

Morag  Murray  Abdullah 

Khyber  Caravan 

Gordon  Sinclair 

Servant  of  Sahibs 

Rassul  Galwan 

Beyond  Khyber  Pass 

Lowell  Thomas 

True  Stories  of  Modern  Explorers 

B.  Webster  Smith 

Call  to  Adventure 

Robert  Spiers  Benjamin 

Heroes  of  Modern  Adventure 

T.  C.  Bridges 

Death  by  Moonlight 

Robert  Henriques 

To  Lhasa  in  Disguise 

William  McGovern 

The  Lives  of  a  Bengal  Lancer 

Francis  Yeats-Brown 

Twenty  Thousand  Miles  in  a  Flying  Boat 

Sir  Alan  Cobham 

The  Secret  of  the  Sahara:  Kufara 

Rosita  Forbes 

Forbidden  Road:  Kabul  to  Samarkand 

Rosita  Forbes 

1  Married  Adventure 

Osa  Johnson 

Grey  Maiden 

Arthur  Howden  Smith 

Sufferings  in  Africa 

Captain  James  Riley 

Tex  O’Reilly  -  Born  to  Raise  Hell 

Tex  O’Reilly  and  Lowell  Thomas 

The  Long  Riders’  Guild 

The  world's  leading  source  of  information  regarding  equestrian  exploration! 

www.thelongridersguild.com 


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Printed  in  the  United  States 
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Enchanted  Vagabonds 
Dana  Lamb 

Dana  and  Ginger  Lamb  had  no  motive  but  adventure  when  they  left 
California  in  the  autumn  of  1933  and  headed  south  in  a  16-foot 
vessel  they  had  built  themselves.  How  else  would  could  you  explain 
setting  off  on  a  16,000  mile  voyage?  However  the  romantic  young 
explorers  did  possess  the  Vagabunda,  a  frail  combination  of  sailboat 
and  canoe.  Not  wanting  to  overload  themselves  the  young 
newlyweds  also  brought  along  a  minimum  of  equipment  and,  as  an 
afterthought,  less  than  five  dollars  between  them. 

What  followed  was  the  one  of  the  greatest  adventure  travel  tales 
ever  to  emerge  from  the  action-packed  1 930s. 


The  Lambs  shot  through  mountainous  surf,  landed  on  fabled 
|  islands,  lived  through  violent  storms,  weathered  nearly  a  dozen  fatal 
wrecks,  were  upset  in  a  traffic  jam  of  whales,  caught  in  quicksand, 
trapped  inside  an  extinct  volcano,  and  lost  in  a  shark-infested 
lagoon.  Then,  armed  with  only  their  wits  and  an  old  machete,  they 
survived  malaria,  fought  off  Indians,  cut  their  way  through  a  jungle, 
and  avoided  flesh-eating  insects,  all  in  the  name  of  love  and 
adventure. 

“Enchanted  Vagabonds”  is  thus  the  action-packed  true  story  of  their 
amazing  combination  of  courage,  love,  and  endurance.  Filled  with 
photographs  taken  on  their  historic  trip,  the  book  is  a  non-stop  thrill 
from  start  to  finish. 


This  is  one  of  the  titles  proudly  featured  in  the  world’s  first 
collection  of  classic  equestrian  and  adventure  travel 
books.  The  Long  Riders’  Guild  Press — the  largest 
source  of  equestrian  travel  information  on  the  planet! 
www.thelongridersguild.com 

ISBN  1-59048-080-5 


ISBN  l-SciD4fl-DflO-5 


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